z^m^i*  ■ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS  •    ATLANTA   •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO..  LiMrran 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


MRS.   MARTIN'S    MAN 


BY 

ST.   JOHN   G.  ERVINE 

ArTHOB     OF     "four     IR18H     PLAYS,"      ETC. 


ilebo  l^orfe 

THE    MACMTLLAN    COMPANY 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,    1915 

Bv  THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANT 


fet  np  ind  Elcctrotyped,  PablUhed  Jinuirj',  19l5 


<0 


\ 


1 


MRS.   MARTIN'S  MAN 


CHAPTER    I 

Mrs.  Martin  could  not  sit  still  any  longer.  She 
rose  from  her  seat  behind  the  counter,  and  called 
her  daughter  Agnes  from  the  door  of  the  shop. 

"I'm  going  home  now,  Aggie,"  she  said,  trjnng 
to  speak  firmly.  A  slight  flickering  of  the  tone 
startled  the  girl,  and  she  glanced  sharply  at  her 
mother. 

"Are  you  not  well,  ma.''*'  she  asked  anxiousl3\ 

"I'm  well  enough,"  Mrs.  ^lartin  replied,  putting 
on  her  coat  and  hat.  "I'll  leave  you  to  look  after 
the  shop.  It's  early  hours  yet  an'  you'll  not  be 
hampered  for  the  want  of  help.  I'll  mebbe  tell 
Jamesey  to  step  down  an'  lend  you  a  hand  when  he 
comes  home." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  mother  in  astonishment. 
She  could  not  remember  a  single  occasion  on  whicli 
she  had  left  the  shop  before  the  hour  of  closing, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  sudden  resolve  to 
quit  the  shop  on  Saturday,  the  busiest  day  of  the 
week,  denoted  that   some  evil  thing  had  happened. 

"But  what  ails  you,  ma.^  .  .  ."  she  began  to 
say. 

Mrs.  Martin  interrupted  her  quickly.  "Nothin' 
ails  me !"  she  said,  and  then,  almost  as  if  she  feared 
that  her  daughter  would  ask  other  questions  of  her, 
she  walked  out  of  the  shop. 

1 


2  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

She  walkt'd  along  the  Shore  Road  toward  the 
railway  station.  When  she  was  approaching  Mc- 
C'onkey's  Hotel,  she  turned  to  look  back  at  the  shop. 
Aggie  was  standing  staring  after  her. 

"She'll  wonder  at  me  not  goin'  home  the  wav 
I  always  go,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  for  a  moment 
she  hesitated.  Then  she  murmured,  "Well,  it 
doesn't  matter  anyway !"  and  continued  on  her  way 
to  the  station. 

A  train  fronj  Belfast  had  arrived  at  Bally reagh 
a  few  moments  before  Mrs.  Martin  came  to  the 
station  door.  She  stood  back  a  little  from  the 
path,  and  eagerly  looked  into  the  faces  of  the  pas- 
sengers as  the}'  came  out  of  the  station  into  the 
street,  but  none  of  them  was  the  face  for  which 
she  sought.  When  all  the  passengers  had  passetl 
out  of  the  station,  she  went  through  the  door  and 
walked  toward  the  barriers.  There  was  a  confu- 
sion of  luggage  and  children  and  agitated  women 
on  the  platform.  The  summer  holidays  were  com- 
ing to  an  end,  and  the  town-dwellers,  browned  and 
reddened  by  the  sun  and  the  wind,  were  returning 
to  Belfast.  She  forced  her  way  into  the  noisy,  be- 
Avildered  crowd  until  she  came  to  an  elderly  porter, 
long  suffering  and  slow  to  wrath,  mIio  was  endeav- 
oring to  persuade  a  stout  woman  to  believe  that  by 
no  chance  could  the  three-ten  train  go  out  of  the 
station  before  three-ten. 

"It'll  mebbc  go  out  after  three-ten,"  he  said  to 
her  in  a  tone  which  indicated  that  the  temper  of 
a  railway  porter  is  not  imperishable,  "but  it'll  not 
go  out  afore  that  time !" 

Mrs.  Martin  touched  him  on  the  arm,  and  he 
turned  toward  her  with  a  movement  of  impatience. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  3 

"No,  mem,  it'll  not !  .  .  . "  he  said  mechanically, 
and  then,  seeing  her,  he  stopped  and  smiled.  "Ah. 
it's  you,  is  it.-*"  he  said.  "I  declare  to  me  good  God 
I'm  near  wore  out  wi'  all  these  ould  women !  I 
never  saw  such  a  pack  in  all  my  born  days !  The 
questions  they  ask  me,  an'  the  way  they  keep 
on  askin'  them  after  I've  give  them  their  an- 
swer !    .    .    . " 

"Did  you  see  anyone  would  be  lookin'  for  me?" 
she  asked  in  a  quiet  voice. 

"I  did  not,"  he  replied.  "Not  this  day  nor  any 
other  day  that  I  mind  of!" 

"You're  sure.'*" 

"I  wish  to  God  I  was  as  sure  of  heaven !  Ah, 
I'm  sure  right  enough  !  Oh,  aye !  Were  you  lookin' 
for  anyone  in  partic'lar.'^" 

"No,"  she  replied  hesitatingly.  "No,  not  any 
one  in  partic'lar.  I  was  lialf  expcctin'  a  friend 
to  come  the  day.  That  was  all.  You're  brave  an' 
busy!    ..." 

"Aye,  I  am  that.  Who  were  you  expcctin',  Mrs. 
Martin.?" 

"Och,  he'll  mebbe  not  come,"  she  answered 
evasively.  "It  doesn't  matter  anyway.  What 
time'll  the  next  train  be  in  from  Belfast.''" 

"There'll  not  be  one  till  half-after  four  now !" 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

She  turned  to  go  away,  but  the  old  porter  called 
after  her. 

"Was  it  your  son  Jamesey  you  were  expcctin'.'*" 
he  said. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "it  was  not.  It  was  some  one 
else !" 

"All,   well,   you   iicicbi't   tell   nic   If    you  dcnn   want 


4  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

to,"  he  exclaimed  huflSly,  and  then  turned  at  the 
demand  of  a  passenger  to  explain  the  devious  wajs 
of  the  Belfast  and  County  Down  Railway  in  a  voice 
that  had  more  of  asperity  in  it  than  was  customary 
with  him. 

Mrs.  Martin  walked  out  of  the  station.  She  stood 
for  a  few  moments  in  a  state  of  indecision,  and 
then  crossed  the  road  and  stood  with  her  arms 
resting  on  the  sea-wall.  The  press  of  day-trippers 
and  holiday-makers  disturbed  her.  There  was  to  be 
an  open-air  concert  in  the  evening,  and  the  rail- 
way company  had  reduced  the  fares  from  Belfast 
to  attract  a  crowd  to  it.  She  walked  along  the 
road  to  the  pier,  at  the  end  of  which  the  lighthouse 
stood,  but  before  she  passed  the  line  of  houses,  she 
turned  to  the  right  and  walked  parallel  with  the 
railway  lines.  She  went  past  the  bathing-place  and 
sat  down  on  the  rocks  on  a  part  of  the  shore  where 
trippers  never  came.  She  looked  over  the  sea,  now 
turning  misty  as  the  dusk  rolled  up,  and  listened  to 
the  slow,  lapping  sound  of  the  little  waves  of  the 
receding  tide  as  they  rose  and  fell  through  the  long, 
yellow  seaweed  and  the  red  wrack  on  the  rocks.  She 
saw  ships  with  smoking  funnels  and  little  sailing- 
boats  drifting  out  of  the  Lough  and  down  the  Irish 
Sea ;  and  now  and  then  she  saw  a  fishing-smack  come 
floating  back  to  land  like  a  weary  sea-bird  when  the 
night  is  down. 

She  sat  in  this  mood  of  quiet  contemplation  for 
some  time,  and  then  she  took  a  letter  from  the  pocket 
in  her  skirt,  and  read  it  through. 

She  had  read  it  many  times  since  she  had  re- 
ceived it  on  the  previous  morning,  but  its  contents, 
though  she  knew  them  almost  by  heart,  still  seemed 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  5 

as  new  and  as  thrilling  as  when  she  had  first  opened 
the  letter.  There  was  twopence  to  pay,  the  post- 
man said  as  he  handed  the  unstamped  letter  to 
her.  Something  had  warned  her  that  it  was  from 
her  husband,  and  very  nervously  she  gave  the  money 
to  the  postman,  and  then  hurriedly  concealed  the 
letter  in  her  bosom  until  she  could  open  it  in  secrecy. 
She  hardly  dared  to  believe  the  news  which  it  con- 
tained. During  the  whole  of  the  previous  day  and 
during  the  whole  of  that  morning,  she  had  told 
herself  that  the  letter  was  a  hoax,  that  some  one, 
cruel  or  irresponsible,  was  trying  to  make  her 
look  ridiculous.  She  had  declared  to  herself  that 
she  would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  take  the  silly 
document  seriously.  Despite  her  incredulity,  how- 
ever, her  natural  state  of  calm  had  disappeared,  and 
ever  since  the  receipt  of  the  letter  she  had  been 
excited,  and  had  barely  been  able  to  conceal  her 
excitement. 

There  was  no  particular  reason  why  she  should 
have  met  the  two  o'clock  train.  He  had  not  stated 
in  his  letter  that  he  would  arrive  at  that  hour. 
He  had  not  stated  when  he  would  arrive.  He  wrote 
to  her  from  Moville,  and  said  that  he  had  been  in 
America,  but  was  tired  of  that  place,  and  had  de- 
cided to  return  to  her.  He  would  be  with  her 
soon  after  she  received  his  letter.  That  was  all. 
The  abruptness  of  the  note  made  her  feel  certain 
that  it  was  genuine.  He  had  always  made  state- 
ments of  fixed  intention :  he  had  never  had  the 
habit  of  giving  explanations  of  conduct.  Although 
there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  meet  the  two 
o'clock  train,  she  felt  that  she  must  meet  it.  He 
might    come    by    that    train,    and    if    he    were    to 


6  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

do  so,  she  would  like  to  be  on  the  platform  to 
greet  him.    .     .     . 

The  train  had  not  brought  him,  and  so  she  had 
turned  away  from  the  station  to  this  lonely  place 
on  the  rocks. 

"It'll  mebbe  be  a  hoax,"  she  murmured  to  herself, 
"like  the  letters  people  does  be  gettin',  tellin'  them 
they're  left  a  fortune  in  America,  an'  them  not  left 
nothin'  at  all !" 

She  put  the  letter  back  into  her  pocket,  and  then 
stood  up. 

"That's  mebbe  it,"  she  said,  as  she  clambered 
over  the  rocks  toward  the  road. 

She  came  back  into  the  Shore  Road  and  walked 
in  the  direction  of  her  shop,  but  before  she  came 
near  it,  she  changed  her  mind  about  her  destination. 
She  turned  into  a  side  street  that  led  to  her  home. 
There  were  few  shopkeepers  in  Ballyreagh  who 
lived  awa}'  from  their  shops,  and  she  was  one  of 
them.  The  little  business  at  the  corner  of  Hunter's 
Lane,  started  so  temerarioush',  had  thriven  be- 
yond her  hopes  (she  had  seen  two  attempts  at 
rivalry  incontinently  collapse)  and  the  small  space 
occupied  by  the  shops  had  had  to  be  enlarged  by 
taking  in  the  living-rooms.  It  had  happened  that 
the  cottage  to  which  her  husband  had  taken  licr 
after  her  marriage  had  become  vacant  about  the 
time  that  the  need  to  extend  her  shop  premises  had 
become  most  urgent.  It  was  not  a  large  cottage, 
although  it  was  large  enough  for  her,  and  she  could 
easily  have  afforded  to  rent  a  larger  and  more  pre- 
tentious house,  but  her  sentiment  overruled  her  sense 
of  grandeur,  and  so  she  returned  to  the  first  home  of 
her  married  life. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  7 

She  was  a  woman  of  middle  height,  very  slender 
and  very  pale.  She  had  calm,  passionless  eyes 
and  a  gentle  look,  and,  although  she  was  not  a 
beautiful  woman  or  even  a  woman  of  good  appear- 
ance, she  had  physical  qualities  which  made 
her  attractive  to  men  of  a  hard,  rough  type.  She 
looked  fragile,  but  beneath  her  lean  appearance 
there  lay  hidden  a  great  store  of  nervous  force 
which  enabled  her  to  execute  gigantic  tasks.  It 
was  this  quality  of  the  implacable  which  enabled 
her  to  open  the  hardware  shop  and  make  it  prosper ; 
and  it  probably  was  this  force  which  caused  stout 
seamen  and  hefty  farmers  to  seek  her  love  while 
healthier  and  handsomer  women  languished  without 
suitors. 

Her  features  were  sharp  and  little,  but  they 
were  not  so  angular  as  to  be  grim ;  her  cheekbones 
were  high,  but  they  did  not  protrude  aggressively; 
her  hps  were  thin  and  bloodless ;  but  her  gray-blue 
eyes  were  gentle  and  soft.  She  had  fine,  fair  hair 
of  which  she  was  very  proud.  It  was  so  long  that 
when  it  was  unbound  it  fell  below  her  waist.  It 
was  beginning  to  lose  its  color  now,  for  she  was  of 
middle  age,  but  it  still  held  much  of  its  luster, 
and  when  the  days  were  sunny,  peo|)U'  would  re- 
mark on  the  shiny  look  it  had.  Her  hair  and  her 
hands  were  her  finest  features,  and  although  her 
hands  were  broken  with  labor,  they  still  had  a  deli- 
cate shape.  She  had  done  wliat  she  could  to  pre- 
serve them  from  the  defilement  of  common  tasks. 
She  would  rub  them  at  night  witli  glycerine  and 
enclose  them  in  an  old  pair  of  kid  gloves  so  that, 
they  might  keep  soft  and  white.  Some  one  had 
told  her  that  lemons  rubbed  well  into  the  skin  kept 


8  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

the  hands  good  to  look  at,  and  after  she  heard  of 
this  recipe,  she  became  a  frequent  customer  of 
Arthur  Magrath,  the  fruit-hawker  ...  but  the 
work  of  the  shop,  despite  her  efforts,  had  spoiled 
her  hands. 


CHAPTER    II 

As  she  walked  up  Moat  Street,  she  saw  that  the 
gate  of  the  churchj^ard  was  open.  Two  men  were 
digging  a  grave.  She  walked  through  the  gateway 
and  when  she  came  to  the  large  vault  where  the 
ancestors  of  the  lord  of  the  manor  lay,  she  sat  down 
on  a  broken  slab  of  stone.  It  was  near  this  stone 
that  her  second  child  lay.  She  could  not  be  quite 
certain  of  the  grave,  for  it  was  a  long  time  since 
she  had  last  entered  the  churchyard,  and  the  grass 
over  the  graves  was  long  and  thick.  The  poor  little 
child!    .    .    . 

She  rested  her  head  on  her  hand,  and  let  her 
thoughts  take  possession  of  her.  The  steady  bump- 
bump  of  a  country  cart  coming  down  the  road  from 
Newtownards  seemed  like  a  modulator  of  the  visions 
of  her  life  that  floated  through  her  mind.  She  could 
hear  the  carter  calling  to  the  horse,  "Get  on  up  out 
of  that,  now !"  and  hear  him  cracking  his  whip  as 
if  to  assure  the  animal  that  he  was  not  speaking 
playfully.  She  looked  up,  and  the  grave-diggers 
nodded  to  her, 

"It's  a  brave  day,  mem !"  one  of  them  said,  as 
he  spat  on  his  hands  and  began  to  shovel  earth 
out  of  the  grave. 

"It  is  that,"  she  replied,  and  then  turned  away 
to    rejfard    the   grave    where    »he   believed    that   her 

9 


]()  MRS.  :martin's  man 

child  was  buried.  He  saw  that,  she  did  not  wisli 
to  carry  on  a  conversation,  but  would  rather  brood 
over  her  dead,  and  so  he  did  not  speak  to  her  again, 
but  continued  to  dig-  lumps  of  cla}-  out  of  the 
earth. 

All  those  early  years  of  her  marriage  passed  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  her  mind  like  a  moving  picture. 
She  saw  James  Martin  as  he  was  when  he  first  came 
to  Ballyreagh  from  the  fishing  village  of  Ardglass 
where  his  father  owned  a  herring-boat  until  he  was 
droAvned  in  a  great  storm.  James  was  the  only 
member  of  his  family  to  follow  the  occupation  of 
his  father.  The  others  had  been  carried  to  Belfast 
by  their  mother  where  they  had  been  swallowed  up 
in  the  shipyards  and  the  linen  factories.  James 
Martin's  ambition  was  outside  the  narrow  domain 
of  herring-fishers.  He  had  that  quality  of  restless- 
ness which  sends  men  tramping  the  world.  A  little 
while  in  Ballyreagh  served  to  satisfy  his  desire  to 
fish.  He  engaged  himself  to  the  skipper  of  an 
ocean  tramp  that  went  where  cargoes  took  it.  Some 
of  its  voyages  were  short,  and  some  of  them  were 
long,  but  all  of  them  Avere  full  of  danger,  for  the 
ship  was  lumpy  and  leaky.  "Only  the  mercy  of 
God  kept  it  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea!"  Mrs. 
Martin  murmured  to  herself  when  she  thought  of 
that  vessel  floating  continually  on  the  surface  of 
death. 

James  Martin  made  love  to  Martha  Mahaffy 
almost  from  the  first  moment  he  saw  her.  Her 
father  was  his  employer  until  he  sailed  away  on  the 
Mary.  She  loved  him  instantly.  There  was  a 
boisterousness  in  his  manner  that  enthralled  her,  and 
he  had  a  rough  way  with  women  that  made  her  look 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  11 

upon  him  as  the  manliest  man  she  had  ever  known. 
When  he  wished  for  a  woman's  company,  she  must 
come  to  him.  When  he  was  tired  of  her  com- 
pany and  wished  to  be  rid  of  her,  he  would  bid 
her  go  and  divert  herself.  He  spoke  in  quick, 
direct  accents.  It  was  sufficient  for  him  that  he 
needed  a  thing — that  was  a  reason  why  he  should 
liave  it. 

Old  John  MahafFy  had  flamed  with  anger  when 
she  told  him  of  her  love  for  James  Martin  and  her 
intention  to  marry  him.  She  had  broken  the 
Mahaffy  tradition  in  allying  herself  to  a  man  of 
poor  means.  The  MahafF^s  were  a  thrifty  race. 
They  had  lived  in  Ballyrcagh  for  six  generations 
that  they  knew  of,  and  probably  for  many  more 
of  which  they  had  no  knowledge:  and  they  were 
as  proud  of  their  family  as  any  lord  in  Ireland 
could  be  of  his.  They  spoke  naturally  of  "the 
IMahafFys,"  and  assumed  instinctively  that  the 
misfortunes  which  befell  otjici-  men  were  not 
likely  to  befall  them.  The  Clcggs  and  the  Magraths 
and  the  Greers  and  the  Mawhinneys  might  now 
and  then  fall  into  disrepute.  A  Clcgg  had  been 
sent  to  jail;  a  Mawhinney  had  given  birth  to  an 
illegitimate  child ;  a  Greer  had  become  a  specula- 
tive builder  in  Belfast,  had  prospered  a  while, 
and  then  had  been  adjudged  a  bankrupt ;  and  a 
Magrath  had  fallen  into  the  Roman  Catholic 
church.  Such  things  might  happen  to  other 
families  that  were  not  so  well  reared  as  the  MahafFys, 
but  none  of  them  had  ever  happened  to  a  MahafFy, 
and  it  was  an  article  of  belief  that  none  of  them 
ever  would  ha])pen  to  a  M;ihafFy.  Had  a  menibci' 
of     the     MahafFy     family     become     destitute,     or     a 


12  MRS.  MARTIN'S  IVIAN 

drunkard,  or  been  deserted,  or  given  birth  to  n 
bastard,  all  the  Mahaffys  would  have  considered 
themselves  disgraced  forever.  Their  tradition 
was  that  each  one  of  them  should  do  well  for 
himself.  The  men  should  prosper  in  business, 
and  the  women  should  marry  husbands  of 
substance. 

It  was  Martha  Mahaff  j  who  broke  the  tradition. 
She  did  badly  for  herself.  At  a  time  when  she 
could  have  chosen  between  George  Tanner,  the  son 
of  a  farmer  and  himself  a  grocer  gradually  acquir- 
ing wealth  and  standing,  and  William  James  Mc- 
Lelland,  the  hotel-keeper,  she  chose  to  marry  James 
Martin,  who  had  no  money  and  no  business,  but 
was  a  rough  man  roaming  the  seas  of  the  world. 
.  .  .  The  Mahaffys  admitted  that  her  father  had 
done  well  when  he  cast  his  daughter  from  his  house, 
and  bade  her  go  to  her  man.  Old  John  Mahaffy 
was  a  true  Mahaffy:  he  had  the  unrelenting  spirit 
of  his  clan.  When  he  met  her  in  the  street,  he 
passed  by  her  as  if  she  were  unknown  to  him.  He 
would  have  bidden  her  go  to  the  workhouse  had 
she  come  to  him  in  hunger.  He  would  not  have 
considered  it  a  disgrace  that  she  should  go  to  the 
Union ;  for  she  was  no  longer  a  Mahaffy.  She  had 
chosen  against  his  will  to  be  a  Martin.  It  was  the 
Mahaffy  tradition  that  a  sin  against  authority  was 
unforgivable. 

James  Martin  had  not  anticipated  that  his  father- 
in-law  would  be  implacably  opposed  to  his  marriage 
with  Martha.  He  imagined  that  the  old  man 
would  relent  after  a  period  of  opposition ;  and  he 
was  gravely  disconcerted  when  he  learned  that 
there  was  not  to  be  any  relenting.     His  return  to 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  13 

his  ship  was  imminent,  but  he  had  no  plans  made 
for  tlie  support  of  his  wife.  He  acquainted  her 
with  his  position.  He  was  without  means  at  the 
present.  He  had  lioped  that  her  father  would 
maintain  her  during  his  first  voyage  after  their  mar- 
riage, or,  at  least,  that  he  would  ])ermit  her  to 
live  in  his  house.  What  proposal  had  she  to  offer.'' 
What  would  she  do  while  he  was  away  from 
home  ? 

She  thought  for  a  while.  No  Mahaffy  woman 
had  ever  found  herself  in  such  a  plight  as  this. 
All  the  Mahaffy  women  Iiad  married  men  of  sub- 
stance. She  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  a  solution 
of  her  j)roblem,  but  she  could  not  see  any  good 
way  out  of  it.  She  said  that  she  could  do  some 
sewing  and  similar  work  until  he  returned  to  her. 
She  tliought  that  her  brother  Henry  might  per- 
mit her  to  stay  with  him  and  his  wife  for  a  little 
tyne  .  .  .  but  in  this  she  was  mistaken.  Henry 
was  next  in  succession  to  his  father  as  head  of 
tjie  faniily,  and  in  his  opinion  a  flout  offered  to 
the  old  man  was  a  flout  offered  to  him.  He 
could  not  condone  her  offense.  She  had  brought 
her  trouble  upon  herself.  She  should  have  remem- 
bered the  Fifth  Commandment  that  her  days 
might  be  long  on  the  land  Avliich  the  Lord  her  God 
gave  her.    .     .     . 

Sitting  there,  in  that  tangled  gra\eyard,  it  seenii'd 
to  her  to  be  marvelous  that  she  could  evei-  have 
reconciled  herself  again  to  her  brother  Henry  and 
his  wife.  'J'hey  had  treated  her  bitterly.  They  had 
thing  her  aside  as  if  she  were  dirt.    .     .     . 

It  was  old  Mr.s.  Crothers  in  ^loat  Street  who  had 
giNfii    a    lioiiK-    [<>    lur:    the    home    in    which   she    now 


14.  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

lived.  The  old  woman,  querulous  and  partially 
paralyzed  by  rheumatism,  had  offered  to  give  board 
and  lodging  to  her  in  return  for  her  help  and 
company ;  and  thus  secured,  she  had  sent  James 
forth  to  his  seafaring.  She  was  grateful  to  Mrs. 
Crothers  for  her  kindness,  but  now  that  she  looked 
back  on  her  life  then,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
old  woman  exacted  a  great  price  for  her  hospitalit}'. 
She  never  seemed  to  be  able  to  overcome  her  aston- 
ishment at  her  generosity  in  providing  Martha 
Martin  with  a  home  when  her  father  would  not  have 
her  inside  his  door.  She  talked  at  great  length 
every  day  of  her  goodness,  and  invented  little  tasks 
to  be  performed  by  Martha  so  that  she  might  be 
suitably  rewarded  for  it.  She  hurt  Martha  by  her 
suggestions  when  she  learned  that  James  was  not 
a  good  correspondent.  He  had  only  written  once 
during  his  first  voyage,  which  lasted  for  six  months : 
and  Mrs.  Crothers  beguiled  the  time  of  wait- 
ing b}'  prophesying  that  he  had  no  intention 
of  ever  returning  to  her.  She  declared  that 
an  additional  infamy  was  to  befall  the  Ma- 
haifys,  the  desertion  of  a  Mahaffy  woman  by  her 
husband. 

"An'  you  the  way  you  are !"  she  would  add 
cruelly. 

It  was  characteristic  of  sailors,  she  asserted, 
that  they  married  women  out  of  hand,  left  them 
with  children,  and  then  deserted  them.  It  was 
fortunate  that  he  had  married  her :  some  sailors 
did  not  do  that  much.  .  .  .  Martha  endured  the 
old  woman's  unkindness  with  great  patience.  She 
must  not  quarrel  with  her,  she  said  to  herself,  be- 
fore James  returned  from  the  sea.     The  small  sums 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  15 

she  earned  by  needlework  were  insufficient  to  keep 
her.  She  would  have  died  rather  than  live  so  that 
her  family  might  point  to  her  as  an  awful  example 
of  the  misery  that  falls  on  those  who  are  guilty  of 
the  sin  of  disobedience.  She  must  so  arrange  her 
life  that  she  should  seem  to  have  prosperity.  Her 
arrangement  with  Mrs.  Crothers  enabled  her  to 
maintain  that  a])pearance. 

She  smiled  to  herself  as  her  mind  lingered  on 
the  terrible  meekness  of  spirit  with  which  she  had 
suffered  Mrs.  Crothers.  It  was  as  well,  perhaps, 
that  she  had  had  to  live  under  that  burden  at  the 
beginning,  for  she  had  sore  need  of  a  patient  spirit 
many  times  afterward.  She  smiled,  too.  when  she 
remembered  how  JanK-s,  on  his  return,  had  con- 
quered the  ]ietulant  old  woman.  He  had  always 
been  very  masterful  with  women,  and  it  was  not 
likely  that  that  old  huddled  weak  thing  would  do 
anything  but  quail  before  him.  She  saw  the  scene 
as  plainly  as  if  it  had  happened  the  day  before. 
Her  hand  took  hold  of  a  bunch  of  rank  grass, 
and  pulled  it  out  of  the  earth.  .  .  .  He  had  not 
warned  her  of  his  return.  She  was  sitting  before 
the  window,  hemming  handkerchiefs,  and  old  Mrs. 
Crothers,  heavily  wrapped  in  shawls,  was  nagging 
at  her  from  her  seat  in  the  rocking-chair  Ixfore  the 
fire.  Oh,  as  plainly  as  that  grass  she  could 
.see  the  scene  again.  The  very  words  that  had  been 
said.    .    .    . 

"I'm  sure,"  the  old  woman  had  said,  "there's 
few  wonien  in  the  world  would  treat  you  as  dacent 
as  I've  done.  Tlio  way  I  took  you  In  an'  give  you 
a  home,  an'  all !" 

She    had    y)aus(d    for    a    while    as    if   she   expected 


16  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

to  receive  a  reply  from  Martha,  but,  none  coming, 
she  had  proceded  with  her  complaint.  "Ah,  well," 
she  had  said,  "the  Lord'll  mebbe  reward  me  for 
my  good  deeds !  It's  little  thanks  you  get  in  this 
world  for  anything,  but,  sure,  them  that  lays  not 
up  treasure  for  themselves  on  earth'll  get  it  in 
heaven.  Every  good  deed  you  do  here'll  be  a  bright 
jewel  in  your  crown!  ..."  She  glanced  up 
at  the  clock  on  the  mantel  shelf.  "What's  the  time?" 
she  demanded,  peering  blinkily  with  her  rheumy 
eyes. 

"It's  half-after  five,"  Martha  had  replied,  putting 
her  sewing  down,  and  coming  to  the  fire-place,  "Will 
I  make  the  tay?" 

The  old  woman's  mind  had  perceived  some  per- 
sonal greed  in  Martha's  question.  "Dear  bless  us," 
she  exclaimed  crossly,  "what  do  you  want  your  tay 
so  early  for.?  An'  you  only  after  your  din- 
ner! Some  people  'ud  ate  you  out  of  hearth  an' 
home !" 

"I  only  just  thought  you'd  like  it  now!    .    .    ." 

"Ah,  yes,  you  only  just  thought!"  She  had  had 
a  twinge  of  rheumatism  at  that  moment  which 
caused  her  to  yell  with  pain.  "Lord  save  us,"  she 
cried,  "the  pain  I  have  to  bear!  Me  that  never 
done  nothin'  in  my  born  da^'s  to  deserve  pain  the 
like  of  this !  An'  then  you  come  an'  bother  me 
with  your  talk  about  ta^'.  It  was  your  own 
self,  Martha  Martin,  was  wantin'  the  tay,  an' 
not  me  at  all  that  you  were  thinkin'  of!  An'  me 
not  chargin'  you  a  penny-piece  for  your  keep  nor 
nothin'!" 

Then  Martha  had  returned  to  her  seat  under  the 
window,   and  had  taken  up  her  sewing  again ;  but 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  17 

Mrs.  Crothers  was  not  to  be  placated.  "Well,  aren't 
you  goin'  to  make  the  tay  after  all?"  she  had 
demanded.        "Sure,      aren't      you      the      contrary 


woman!    .    .    ." 


"I  thought  you  didn't  want  me  to  make  it  this 
minute !" 

"You  thought!  You're  always  thinkin' !  Go  on 
with  you,  woman,  an'  wet  the  tay  at  once !" 

It  was  while  Martha  was  preparing  the  tea  that 
James  came  to  the  door.  Neither  Mrs.  Crothers 
nor  she  saw  him  at  first.  Martha  was  getting  cups 
and  saucers  from  the  scullery,  and  Mrs.  Crothers 
was  sitting  with  her  back  to  him. 

"That  man  of  yours,"  she  was  saying  at  the 
time,  "ought  to  be  right  well  ashamed  of  himself! 
Goin'  off  like  that,  an'  leavin'  you  with  no  money 
or  nothin',  an'  you  expectin',  an'  only  for  the  kind- 
ness of  a  neighbor  woman  you'd  be  landed  on  the 
street  or  mebbe  in  the  poorhouse.  It's  my  belief, 
Martha  Martin,  you'll  never  clap  your  eyes  on  him 
again !" 

And  then  James  pushed  the  door  open,  and 
stepped  into  the  kitchen.  It  was  like  him  to  wait 
for  the  moment. 

"An'  you're  just  wrong  then,  Mrs.  Crothers!"  he 
said,  going  over  to  the  sofa  and  sitting  down. 


CHAPTER    III 

She  could  not  help  laughing  to  herself  as  she  sat 
there,  pulling  tufts  of  grass  from  the  graves  and 
throwing  them  down  heedlessly  by  her  side,  for  poor 
Mrs.  Crothers  had  been  so  startled  by  the  sudden 
entry  of  James  that  she  had  forgotten  about 
her  rheumatism,  and  had  tried  to  leap  out  of  her 
chair, 

"Glory  be  to  God,"  she  exclaimed,  "who's 
that?" 

Martha  had  hurried  back  to  the  kitchen  from  the 
scullery. 

"Oh,  James !"  she  said  when  she  saw  her  husband, 
and  then,  too  overcome  to  speak  any  more,  she  sat 
down  and  cried. 

But  James  was  not  tender  to  her.  "Ah,  what 
are  you  oh,  Jamesin'  about !"  he  said  roughly,  throw- 
ing a  parcel  on  to  the  sofa  beside  her. 

"Sure,  there's  nothin'  to  cry  about !" 

She  had  dried  her  tears  with  her  apron  when  he 
said  that.  "I  didn't  mean  to  cry,"  she  said,  "only 
it  was  so  sudden,  an'  I'm  not  very  well !    .    .    . " 

Then  old  Mrs.  Crothers  had  recovered  herself. 
"I  should  think  it  was  sudden,"  she  said  shrewishly. 
"Comin'  in  on  us  like  that  without  a  word  of  warnin' 
or  nothin',  as  if  the  house  was  his  own,  an' 
scarin'    people    out    of    their    seven    wits !       Dear 

18 


MRS.  IMARTIN'S  MAN  19 

knows  what  3011  might  have  done  to  her,  James 
Martin,  scarin'  her  like  that,  an'  her  the  way  she 
is  an'  all  i" 

He  had  not  noticed  that  she  was  going  to  have 
a  child. 

•'The  wav  she  is  what?"  he  said  in  a  surly 
tone. 

"The  way  she  is  what !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crothers 
in  bitter  sarcasm.  "What  way  would  she  be  with  a 
man  like  you.'"' 

He  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down 
beside  the  old  woman.  "You  would  think  \'ou  were 
out  of  your  mind,"  he  said  to  her,  rubbing  liis  legs 
as  he  felt  the  warmth  of  the  fire  on  them,  "the  way 
you're  goin'  on !" 

"Out  of  my  mind  is  it.^  Heth,  James 
Martin!  ..."    * 

He  cut  the  old  woman  short,  and  turned  to  his 
wife. 

"What  ails  you,  Martha?"  he  said. 

"I'm  goin'  to  have  a  child,  James !"  she  an- 
swered. 

"Och,"  he  said,  taking  oft"  his  boots,  "is  that  all? 
I  thought  there  was  mebbt^  something  the  matter 
with  you.  Is  there  a  pair  of  slippers  in  the  house 
at  all.^" 

She  went  upstairs  to  the  room  where  she  slept, 
and  brought  down  a  pair  of  slippers  for  him. 

"You're  makin'  yourself  quaren  at  home,  James 
Martin!"  said  Mrs.  Crothers. 

"I  am,"  he  replied.  "An'  why  wouldn't  I?  Will 
the  tay  be  long,  Martha?" 

This  had  been  more  than  Mrs.  Crothers'  temper 
could  endure. 


20  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"You're  forgettin'  yourself  altogether,  James 
Martin!"  she  shouted  at  him,  raising  herself  a  little 
in  her  chair  as  she  did  so.  "That's  what  you're 
doin' !  Forgettin'  yourself  altogether !  This  isn't 
your  house,  an'  well  you  know  it !  Comin'  in  here 
as  if  you  had  call  to  come !  You  hadn't  got  a 
pennjpiece  to  buy  a  stick  of  furniture  when  you 
were  married  on  Martha  there,  an'  mind  that  now ! 
Don't  be  coniin'  in  here,  lettin'  on  to  be  some  one, 
for,  sure  you're  not,  so  you're  not,  an'  you'll  just 
Avalk  out  of  this  as  quick  as  you  can !  You'll  get 
no  tay  in  my  house,  I'm  tellin'  you !" 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  exhausted  by  her  out- 
burst, and  glared  angrily  at  him. 

"Right  you  are,"  he  replied,  kicking  off  his  slip- 
pers, and  putting  out  his  hand  to  take  his  boots. 
"We'll  not  trouble  you  any  longer  Avith  our  com- 
pany, mem  !     Get  j^our  things  on,  Martha  !" 

"I  didn't  say  she  was  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Crothers. 

"No,  I  know  that,"  he  replied,  "but  I  did.  I'm 
her  man,  amn't  I.''  Go  on,  Martha!  Go  an'  get 
ready,  an'  we'll  go  an'  look  for  lodgin's.  I  daresay 
vou've  had  a  miserable  time  of  it  here,  with  an 
ould  Avoman  the  like  of  her  cryin'  at  you  all  day !" 
Martha  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  he  spoke 
sharply  to  her.  "Go  on,  will  you.?  We'll  send 
for  the  rest  of  your  things  when  we've  got 
lodgin's !" 

She  went  upstairs  again,  Avithout  responding,  and 
he  finished  lacing  up  his  boots.  She  could  hear  the 
old  woman's  voice,  now  empty  of  anger,  and  full  of 
anxious  complaint. 

"You  think  you're  quaren  clcA^er,  James  Martin !" 
I\frs.  Crothers  said,  vaguely  troubled. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  U 

"I  don't  think  notliin'  of  the  sort,"  he  reph'cd. 
"You  told  me  to  go,  an'  I'm  goin'.  What  more 
do  vou  want?" 

"You  know  well  I  didn't  mean  her  to 
go !" 

"An'  had  you  the  cheek  to  think  I'd  be  leavin' 
lier  behind  me?  Woman-a-dear,  you  must  be  de- 
irientcd  mad!  You've  been  havin'  the  grand  time, 
by  all  I  can  see,  enjoyin'  yourself  rightly,  an'  her 
doin'  all  the  work  for  you,  an'  lookin'  after  you  an' 
all,  like  a  servant-girl,  an'  you  doin'  nothin'  but 
scoldin'  her  all  the  time !  Heth,  you'll  not  do  that 
n)uch  longer  I'm  thinkin' !" 

Martha  came  down  the  stairs,  as  he  said  this, 
dressed  for  the  street.  "James,  dear,"  she  said, 
"don't  be  hard  on  her.  She  didn't  mean  nothin', 
an'  sure  she's  an  ould  woman  with  no  one  to  take 
care  of  her !" 

"She  can  take  care  of  herself  rightly.  She  was 
able  to  do  it  afore  you  come  here,  an'  she'll  have 
to  do  it  when  you're  gone.  An'  if  she  can't,  she 
can  go  in  the  poorliouse,  or  get  some  one  else  to 
do  it,  some  one  that'll  want  payin'  for  tlieir 
trouble!" 

Old  Mrs.  Crothers  had  lapsed  into  rheumy  tears 
when  she  heard  him  speak  of  the  poorhouse,  and 
was  now  sniffmg  and  choking.  Iler  broken  hands 
were  beating  a  timeless  tune  on  the  arms  of  her 
chair. 

"She's  not  so  well,  as  she  used  to  be,"  said  Martha. 
"She's  gettin'  feebler  every  day  !   .   .   ." 

"'Deed  an'  that's  true,  Martha!"  the  old  woman 
interrupted  eagerly.  "I'm  not  near  the  woman  I 
was.     If  you  had  the  pains  an'  tornientin's  I  have, 


S2  MRS.  INIARTIN'S  MAN 

James  Martin,  you'd  not  be  talkin'  the  way  you 
are !" 

He  picked  up  his  bundle  from  the  sofa.  "Well, 
sure,  I  can't  help  your  pains  an'  tormcntin's,  can 
I.?"  he  said.  "Come  on,  Martha,  afore  it  gets 
dark.  Sure,  we're  keepin'  the  woman  from  her 
tay !" 

He  walked  toward  the  door  and  pulled  it  open. 
Martha  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen,  look- 
ing at  him  as  if  looking  would  cause  him  to  relent. 
Her  anxiety  and  her  impending  motherhood  had 
weakened  her,  and  she  was  very  fragile-looking  as 
she  stood  there  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset.  But 
James  did  not  notice  that  she  was  tired. 

"Come  on,"  he  said  in  his  hard,  rough  voice,  turn- 
ing to  go  out. 

Mrs.  Crothers  gave  a  great,  helpless  cry,  and 
began  to  rock  herself  feebly  in  her  chair. 

"Don't  be  goin'  an'  leavin'  me,"  she  called  to 
Martha.     "Sure,  I  didn't  mean  the  half  I  said!" 

James  came  back  into  the  kitchen.  He  threw  his 
bundle  down  again  on  the  sofa,  and  reseating  himself 
before  the  fire,  began  to  unlace  his  boots. 

"There's  your  slippers,"  said  Martha,  putting 
them  ready  for  him. 

"Right  you  are,"  he  exclaimed.  "Get  the  tay 
ready,  will  you.''     I'm  dyin'  o'  hunger!  .  .   ." 

After  that,  she  was  like  clay  in  his  hands.  The 
old  woman,  who  lived  on  a  pension,  had  become 
so  decrepit  that  had  Martha  left  her,  she  must  have 
done  as  James  had  said,  either  go  into  the  poor- 
house  or  pay  some  one  to  take  care  of  her.  Her 
old  querulous  tone  was  maintained  when  she  and 
Martha  wore  alone,  and  she  would  threaten  to  teach 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  ]\1AN  9S 

James  a  lesson  one  day  when  she  had  her  health 
back ;  but  her  threats  had  no  sting  in  them.  Be- 
fore James  returned  home,  Mrs.  Crothers  had 
Ix'lieved  that  she  could  turn  Martha  out  of  doors  at 
any  moment  and  that  were  she  to  act  in  that  man- 
ner she  would  enormously  disconcert  Martha ;  but 
now  she  had  learned  that  she  could  only  disconcert 
herself  by  such  a  deed.  In  James's  presence  she 
was  like  a  frightened  child.  She  did  not  speak  to 
him  unless  he  spoke  to  her.  She  would  sit  huddled 
up  in  her  chair  before  the  fire,  with  her  shawls 
tightly  folded  about  her,  and  her  gray,  withering 
hair  covered  by  a  white  night-cap.  Martha  would 
place  a  clove  between  her  toothless  gums,  and  she 
would  roll  it  about  between  thein  until  it  became 
too  soft  to  grip;  and  then  she  would  whimper  for 
another  one.  She  always  held  a  handkerchief  in 
her  knuckly  hands,  and  she  would  sit  thus  for  a  long 
time,  chewing  the  clove  and  twisting  the  hand- 
kerchief about  in  her  fingers  until  it  became  crum- 
pled and  dirty.  She  seldom  spoke.  Sometimes  her 
lips  would  move,  but  no  words  issued  from  them, 
and  then  her  eyes  would  water  and  become  dry 
again. 

There  was  something  terrible  in  the  spectacle  of 
that  hulk  of  a  woman,  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire, 
gazing  with  rheumy  eyes  at  nothing.  Her  cheeks 
had  fallen  in,  and  her  teeth  had  all  gone.  Her  skin 
was  yellow  and  crinkled  with  lines  that  made 
great  clefts  on  her  brow  and  gathered  in  a  dreadful 
cluster  about  her  eyes  and  n)outh.  When  she  ate 
her  food,  her  jaws,  long  and  lean,  worked  with  hor- 
rible monotony.  Her  mind  had  received  a  blow  from 
which  it  could  not  recover:  she  was  rapidly  lapsing 


24  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

into  senility :  she  was  almost  an  empty  shell.  Death 
had  had  no  difficulty  with  her.  Martha  remembered 
that.  The  old  woman  had  fallen  out  of  life  veiy 
easily.  She  had  been  dressed  and  happed  in  her 
shawls,  and  half  carried  to  her  chair.  The  hand- 
kerchief had  been  placed  in  her  fingers,  and  a  clove 
betAveen  her  gums.  The  broken,  gnarled  fingers  be- 
gan to  work  the  moment  they  felt  the  handkerchief, 
and  the  pale  gums  worried  the  clove  remorselessly. 
She  had  been  still  for  a  while,  and  Martha  had 
imagined  that  she  was  asleep.  Suddenly  she  began 
to  cry. 

"What  ails  you.^"'  said  Martha,  going  toward 
her. 

The  old  woman  made  a  gurgling  sound  in  her 
throat.  Her  eyes  opened  very  wide,  and  she  seemed 
to  be  afraid.  "It's  the  quare  thing!  ..."  she 
began  to  say,  and  then  lay  back  in  her  chair. 

"What  did  you  say?"  INIartha  asked,  putting  the 
clove  which  had  fallen  in  her  lap  back  into  her 
mouth. 

The  old  woman  did  not  respond.  She  sat  there 
quite  quietly,  gazing  vacantly  and  fixedly  before  her. 
The  hands  ceased  to  be  agitated,  the  clove  fell  again 
from  her  lips  and  rolled  off  her  lap  on  to  the  floor ; 
her  rheumy  eyes  gazed  more  vacantly  and  fixedly 
still.    .    .    . 

"Is  she  dead  yet.^"  said  James,  when  Martha  sum- 
moned him  from  the  corner  of  the  street. 

They  took  possession  of  the  cottage  and  its  con- 
tents. Mrs.  Crothers  had  no  relatives  nearer  at 
hand  than  America,  and  her  effects  were  of  so  little 
value  that  question  was  not  raised  when  James  made 
them  his  own.     She  had  left  a  few  sovereigns  in  her 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  25 

cash-box,  but  the  cost  of  burying  her  took  all  of 
them,  he  said. 

"We've  got  a  home,  anyway,"  he  said  to  Martha, 
"an'  we're  not  beholdin'  to  no  one,  your  da  or  any- 
body !" 

Death  was  busy  then.  It  was  soon  after  Mrs. 
Crothers'  burial  that  old  John  MahafFy  fell  ill. 
Esther,  who  was  Martha's  younger  sister,  came  run- 
ning to  her,  weeping  and  demanding  help. 

"Did  my  da  send  you.'"'  said  Martha  to  the  weep- 
ing girl. 

"No,  he  did  not,"  she  replied. 

"Ah,  sure,  that  doesn't  matter,"  James  exclaimed. 
"You  can't  be  keepin'  up  wrangles  when  a  man's 
on  his  death-l)ed,  can  you?  An'  niebbe  he  wasn't 
able  to  say  nothin' !" 

Martha  put  her  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  and 
prepared  to  go  home  with  her  sister.  "I'm  not 
wan  tin'  to  be  keepin'  up  wrangles,"  she  said.  "I'm 
only  afeard  he'll  not  let  me  next  or  near  him!" 

She  sent  Esther  to  fetch  the  doctor,  and  told 
licr  to  summon  her  brother  Henry.  "You  should 
'a'  brought  him  afore !"  she  said. 

But  Esther  had  {)urposely  refrained  from  sending 
for  Henry  and  his  wife.  "I  can't  bear  Jane  Ma- 
hafFy," she  said. 

"Go  on,  now,  girl !"  said  Martha,  "an'  fetch  them 
all,  an'  I'll  go  uj)  to  the  house !" 

I'^stlier  hurried  out  of  the  cottage,  and  James 
went  to  the  door  to  look  after  her  as  she  ran  up 
1he  street. 

"That  sister  of  yours  has  got  to  be  a  nice-lookin' 
gill,"  he  said,  as  Martha  went  past  him  into  the 
street. 


26  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"She's  not  so  bad,"  she  answered  as  she  hurried 
off. 

Her  brotlier  and  his  wife  were  already  in  her 
father's  house  when  she  arrived.  She  greeted  them 
civilly. 

"Is  that  you,  Henry  .^"  she  said.  "How're  you, 
Jane.?" 

Henry  looked  sourly  at  her.  "Aye,  it  is,"  he  re- 
plied. "An'  what  brings  you  here,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

"The  same  that  brings  you,  I  suppose !"  she  an- 
swered grimly. 

Jane  Mahaffy  had  entered  the  sick-room,  but  she 
came  out  again  very  soon,  ominous  and  gloomy. 
"It's  near  his  death  he  is !"  she  said. 

Martha  threw  her  shawl  aside,  and  made  as  if  she 
would  enter  the  dying  man's  room,  but  Jane  Ma- 
haffy stood  in  her  way. 

"He'll  not  have  you  anear  him,  he  says !"  she 
said. 

Martha  pushed  her  aside.  "For  shame,  Jane  Ma- 
haffy," she  exclaimed,  "to  be  sayin'  the  like  of  that 
about  a  man  to  his  daughter.  Get  out  of  my  way, 
will  you !" 

Her  brother  called  to  her  in  his  solemn,  pompous 
tones.  "Conduct  yourself  decently,"  he  said,  "an' 
not  be  goin'  on  like  that,  an'  the  angel  of  death  at 
hand!" 

"He's  my  da  as  well  as  yours,"  Martha  retorted 
passionately,  "an'  he's  nothin'  to  her.  It's  the  like 
of  you  that  put  bitterness  in  him  against  me,  but 
you'll  not  stop  me  now  from  seein'  him,  I  tell  you 
certain  sure !" 

She    opened   the   door   and   went    into   the    room, 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  27 

stepping  lightly  as  is  the  way  with  people  in  the 
presence  of  the  dying. 

"Is  that  you,  Jane?"  the  sick  man  said  feebly. 

"No,  da,"  she  replied.     "It's  me!" 

He  raised  himself  up  in  the  bed  with  sudden  fury, 
ond  waved  his  hand  at  her,  but  whatever  it  was 
he  wished  to  say  to  her,  would  not  come ;  the  words 
would  not  form  on  his  lips ;  and  he  fell  back 
exhausted  on  to  his  pillow.  She  went  over  to  him, 
and  put  her  arm  under  him  and  lifted  him  up, 
but  he  rolled  himself  out  of  her  grasp  and  sank  down 
heavily  in  the  bed.  Her  brother  and  his  wife  had 
followed  her  into  the  bedroom,  and  Jane  MahafFv 
now  thrust  herself  betwen  her  and  the  dying 
man. 

"Do  you  want  to  kill  the  ould  fellow,"  she  said, 
"troublin'  him  like  that !"  She  bent  over  him, 
and  spoke  to  him.  "It's  me,"  she  said.  "It's 
Jane !" 

He  turned  to  her,  and  his  lips  moved. 

"I  can't  hear  what  you  say !"  she  said. 

"Tell    .     .    .    Tell    ..." 

"Tell  what?" 

He  made  a  great  effort  to  be  coherent.  "Tell 
.     .     .    tell    .     .     .    her    ..." 

"Do  you  mean  Martha?"  Jane  asked,  and  he 
nodded  his  head. 

Martha  went  forward  to  the  bedside.  "It's  me 
he   wants,"   she  said.      "I   told  you  it  was!" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  at  her.  His  eyes 
caught  Jane's,  and  he  tried  to  speak  again.  "Tell 
.  .  .  tell  .  .  .  hrr  ...  go  ...  go  'way !"  he 
gasped  out. 

Jane  laid  him   buck  on   the  pillow.      "You  heard 


g8  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

what      he      said,      didn't      you?"      she      said      to 
Martha. 

"Mebbe,  you'll  go  now,"  James  exclaimed. 
Martha  stood  irresolutely   for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  Avent  to  the  head  of  the  bed  again.  "Do 
you  want  me  to  go  away  from  you,  da?"  she  said 
to  her  father. 

Ho  nodded  his  head.  "Go  .  .  .  go  .  .  .  'way 
.    .    .    you !"  he  said. 

She  looked  down  on  him  for  a  second  or  two, 
and  then  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room.  She 
did  not  cry  nor  did  she  bemoan  her  father's  hard- 
ness. She  fixed  her  shawl  about  her  head,  and  went 
home. 

"He's  the  hard  ould  lad,"  said  James,  when  she 
told  him  of  what  had  happened. 

A  week  later  her  father  had  died.  Her  share 
of  the  inheritance  was  willed  to  Henry  and  Esther 
in  equal  parts,  and  the  cottage  was  left  to  Henry 
and  his  wife.  Esther  refused  to  live  in  it  with  them. 
Her  brother  insisted  that  her  place  was  with  him, 
the  head  of  the  family,  but  she  told  him  that  she 
detested  his  wife,  and  would  live  with  Martha  in- 
stead. There  had  been  an  angry  scene  between  them 
in  which  he  accused  her  of  disloyalty  to  her  dead 
father. 

"You  know  well,"  he  said,  "my  da  never  forgive 
her,  an'  he'd  never  have  let  you  go  anear  her  if  he 
knowed.  You'd  'a'  got  nothin'  in  his  will  if  he'd 
thought  yon  were  goin'  to  live  with  her  after  him 
dead !" 

"I'll  do  what  I  like,"  said  Esther,  "an'  not  what 
you  like!" 

So  it  was  that  Esther  came  to  live  with  Martha 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  29 

in  Mrs.  Crothers'  cottage.  "You'll  be  iii  need  of 
some  one  to  keep  jou  company,"  she  said,  "when 
James  is  away  to  sea,  an'  you  the  way  you  are !" 

James  patted  her  on  the  shoulder  and  kissed  her 
when  he  heard  of  her  proposal.  "You're  the  right 
wee  girl,"  he  said.  "You  are  in  sang!  I  was  won- 
derin'  to  myself  what  I'd  be  doin'  about  Martha, 
an'  me  goin'  away  again  next  week,  an'  the  Lord 
only  knows  when  I'll  be  back !" 

That  was  the  first  definite  information  Martha 
had  received  of  his  pending  departure.  She  had 
known,  of  course,  that  he  must  soon  go  away  again, 
but  in  a  vague  fashion  she  had  hoped  that  he  would 
be  with  her  when  the  baby  was  born. 

"It'll  be  lonely  without  3'ou,"  she  said. 

"Ah,     sure,     it's     always     lonely     wherever     you 


are !" 


"You  could  mebbe  stay  a  wee  while  'til  the 
child  is  born  !" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  couldn't  stop  at  all.  What 
'ud  be  the  good  of  me  stoppin'  any  way.''  I'm  sick, 
sore  an'  tired  of  doin'  nothin'  all  day,  an'  I  want 
to  be  on  the  sea  again !" 

In  this  way  was  it  arranged.  Esther  came  to 
live  with  Martha,  and  on  the  appointed  day  James 
sailed  to  Charlcstown  in  America.  It  was  while  he 
was  away  that  her  baby  was  born :  a  boy  whom  she 
named  after  his  father. 


CHAPTER    IV 

It  seemed  to  her,  as  she  sat  there,  brooding  over 
the  past,  that  it  was  only  last  night  that  she  had 
lain  in  bed  afraid  of  the  pain  to  come.  She  was 
a  proud  woman,  then  as  now,  and  she  had  not  asked 
for  help  or  comfort  from  her  relatives.  Esther  was 
too  young  to  understand  or  assist.  She  had  had  to 
bear  her  fear  in  silence. 

There  had  been  times  when  she  could  feel  the  child 
stirring  in  her  womb  so  that  its  movements  hurt 
her.  She  could  have  cned  aloud,  but  she  had  not 
wished  anyone  to  know  that  she  was  suffering. 
If  she  had  only  had  James  by  her  side,  and  could 
have  clung  to  him  in  the  night  when  the  pain  came ; 
if  only  she  could  have  told  him  of  it,  and  had  been 
comforted  by  him,  it  would,  she  imagined,  have 
been  easier  to  bear.  There  was  no  one  to  give 
consolation  to  her.  "It  would  make  Esther 
afeard,"  she  had  said  to  herself,  when  she  restrained 
her  desire  to  tell  the  girl  of  what  was  happening 
to  her. 

Then  had  come  the  great  pain  of  all,  when  it 
seemed  as  if  her  body  were  bursting,  and  every 
particle  of  her  flesh  was  being  screwed  up  tightly. 
Some  one  had  tied  a  towel  to  the  top  of  her  bed  so 
that  she  could  hold  it  when  the  time  came,  and  she 
had   torn   at   it   desperately,   for   she   did   not   wish 

30 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  31 

to  scream :  but  the  pain  beat  her.  and  a  great  cry 
broke  from  her  lips.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
world  was  tumbling  to  pieces,  that  she  could  not 
live,  that  after  such  agony  death  must  come  like 
precious  balsam.  .  .  .  She  remembered  the  pale, 
anxious  face  of  the  doctor,  and  that  even  in  her 
pain  she  had  wondered  to  iiersolf  why  it  was  that 
his  eyes  were  of  different  colors :  one  was  brown, 
and  one  was  gray.  And  when  she  felt  that  the  su- 
preme moment  had  come,  and  death  had  but  to  turn 
the  corner,  and  she  would  be  ready  to  go  with  him, 
her  memory  slipped  away  from  her.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  tiny,  wailing  sound  in  the  room,  she  remem- 
bered, when  she  recovered  consciousness. 

"Is  that  it.'*"  she  said  to  the  nurse,  and  then, 
when  she  had  been  answered,  she  whispered,  "What 
is  it.'"'  and  they  told  her  that  she  was  the  mother 
of  a  son. 

"A  most  difficult  birth,"  the  doctor  had  said  after- 
Avard,  "but  you  came  through  it  splendidly!" 

"The  MahafFys  were  always  a  tough  lot,''  she 
answered  jokingly. 

In  the  course  of  time,  she  had  two  more  children, 
both  girls.  She  called  one  of  them  Esther,  after 
her  sister,  and  the  other  was  called  Agnes,  after 
her  husband's  mother.  The  little  Esther  had  died 
when  she  was  two  years  old,  and  here  in  this  grave 
she  lay,  where  all  the  dead  \rahaffys  lay,  mingling 
her  dust  with  that  of  the  unrelenting  old  man  who 
was  her  grandfather.  Janus  Martin  was  at  home 
when  the  child  suddenly  sickened  and  then  as  sud- 
denly died.  Mrs.  Martin  could  not  bear  to  stay 
any  longer  In  the  graveyard  when  she  thought  of 
her  baby's  death.      She    still   felt   the  pain   of  that 


32  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

poor  burial,  and  when  she  remembered  how  kind 
James  had  been  to  her  then,  she  cried.  He  had 
loved  the  little  Esther  so  tenderly,  and  mourned 
for  her  bitterly.  He  had  been  sitting  by  her  bed 
when  she  died,  and  when  the  last  convulsive  moan 
came  from  the  tiny,  tortured  body,  and  she  lay 
dead,  he  turned  away  and  wandered  into  the  gar- 
den at  the  back  of  the  cottage.  In  the  evening 
they  found  him  there,  stretched  on  the  ground,  close 
to  the  fuschia  bush.  He  had  a  hard,  hungry  look 
in  his  eyes.  Her  sister  Esther  had  said  afterwards 
that  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  had  been 
shedding  dry  tears.  Then  he  went  to  sea  again, 
and  when  he  returned  he  did  not  speak  of  the  baby, 
nor  did  he  ever  go  to  the  churchyard  to  look  at 
her  grave. 

She  had  to  come  away  from  the  burial-place. 
For  years,  now — so  long  that  it  seemed  a  lifetime — 
she  had  been  living  with  all  her  emotions  tightly 
screwed ;  but  the  letter  she  had  received  the  day 
before  had  loosened  them ;  and  all  the  memories  that 
had  become  dull  were  bright  again,  and  the  tears 
that  she  had  thought  would  never  flow  another  time 
were  brimming  in  her  eyes.  As  she  answered  the 
grave-diggers'  "Good-day  to  you,  mem !"  and  came 
out  of  the  churchj^ard,  she  recollected  something 
that  her  brother  Henry  had  said  to  her  when 
Esther  was  buried.  His  heart  had  softened  toward 
her  when  the  affliction  fell  upon  her,  and  he  followed 
the  little  coffin  to  its  burial.  "Death  is  the  strange 
thing,"  he  said.  "The  young  taken,  an'  the  ould 
left!  It's  quare  to  think  of  my  da  lyin'  there,  with 
your  child  on  the  top  of  him,  an'  him  hadn't  a  word 
to  say  to  you,  an'  him  dyin'.     That's  quare !"     In- 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  33 

deed  it  Avas  queer!  That  stern,  unbending  old  man 
and  the  little  wayward  child  were  mingled  dust,  and 
they  and  generations  older  than  they,  were  neither 
old  nor  3'oung,  passionate  nor  passionless,  seared 
nor  unmarked;  but  just  one  common  piece  of 
brown  earth,  incapable  of  hurt  or  wrong.  "An' 
clean,  too !"  she  murmured.  "Clean  like  the  sea !" 
That  was  queer,  surely :  to  be  an  unforgiving  old 
man  one  time,  or  a  child  learning  to  talk,  and  then 
to  be  a  handful  of  mould  that  may  be  taken  in  hand 
and  scattered  to  the  wind  as  one  scatters 
sand.    .    .    . 

It  was  after  the  death  of  the  baby  Esther  that 
James  had  grown  strange  in  his  manner  toward  her. 
That  memory  came  into  her  mind  as  she  stood  at 
the  pump  a  little  wa}'  from  the  gate  of  the  churcli- 
yard,  wondering  what  she  should  do  now.  She 
could  not  go  back  to  the  shop,  and  she  did  not  ^a^t 
desire  to  go  honjc.  Esther  would  bo  there !  .  .  . 
She  walked  up  the  street  a  little  (jii  t})e  road  to- 
ward Newtownards  until  she  came  to  the  narrow 
lane  that  led  to  the  mound  on  which  the  Moat  stood: 
u  round  tower  in  which,  so  legend  ran,  snmggkrs 
once  kept  their  treasure,  thougli  the  records 
make  a  beacon-tower  of  it.  She  climbed  the  path, 
and  sat  down  on  a  wooden  seat  at  the  foot 
of  the  Moat.  Maybe,  on  this  very  seat  James  and 
Esther.    .     .     . 

He  had  always  been  a  restless  man,  but  after 
the  death  of  the  baby,  there  were  added  to  his  rest- 
lessness anger  and  sullen  temper  and  swift  chaiiges 
of  mood.  Her  sister  Esther  had  always  been  a 
girl  with  fine  looks,  but  now  tliat  she  was  apiDroach- 
ing   womanhood    she    h;id    beauty    and    favor.      She 


S4  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MA'S 

was  tall  and  slender,  and  her  clothes  fitted  closely 
to  her  form,  showing  the  outlines  of  her  shapely 
limbs.  She  had  dark  hair  that  coiled  about  her  head 
in  clinging  curls,  and  she  had  fine  long  lashes  that 
made  dusky  pools  of  her  eyes.  Her  lips  were  full 
and  red,  and  she  had  little  white,  sharp  teeth.  Her 
breasts  were  like  little  round  towers.  She  was 
beautiful  and  warm  and  loving.  .  .  .  Martha 
came  on  her  and  James  suddenly  one  day.  He 
damned  her  for  her  suspicious  mind  and  asked 
whether  he  could  not  kiss  his  sister-in-law  without 
people  saying  things  and  thinking  things.  If  she 
wanted  to  know  the  tnith,  Esther  had  been  chaffing 
him,  and  he  had  just  paid  her  out!  What  the  hell 
was  she  gaping  at !  .  .  .  Esther  came  weeping  to 
her  later  and  said  tliat  she  was  sorry.  She  had  not 
meant  to  do  any  harm.  She  would  go  away  from 
Ballyreagh  if  Martha  wished  her  to  do  so,  even  to 
America.  She  would  never  give  cause  for  complaint 
again.  She  swore  it  of  her  own  accord  on  the  Bible. 
It  had  all  been  a  joke.  She  could  not  think  why 
she  had  allowed  James  to  kiss  her — for  that  was  all 
that  took  place  between  them.  She  was  sorry  she 
had  ever  been  born.  Indeed,  indeed,  she  assured 
her  sister,  there  had  not  been  any  wrong  thing 
between  them,  except  the  kiss.  She  turned  from 
her  sister,  and  said  quietly,  "That  will  do,  Esther !" 
and  said  no  more.  She  never  spoke  about  it 
again,  although  she  suspected  that  her  husband 
and  Esther  continued  to  love  and  kiss  and 
sin. 

Henry  MahafFy  had  come  to  her  and  complained 
that  the  conduct  of  Esther  and  James  was  scan- 
dalous.    It  was  his  duty  as  head  of  the  family,  he 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  S5 

said,  to  interfere,  and  he  spoke  of  carrying  Esther 
before  the  minister.  .  .  .  She  had  told  him  that  he 
was  wrong  to  suspect  his  sister  of  sin  with  James. 
She  could  not  imagine  how  anyone  could  invent  such 
stories  about  a  young,  motherless  girl.  It  was  a 
pack  of  lies.  .  .  .  "Didn't  I  see  them  myself," 
he  retorted  angrily,  "the  pair  of  them  kissin'  in  the 
dark!  I  saw  them  with  my  own  eyes,  lyin'  that 
close  together,  you  couldn't  see  a  shadow  between 
them.     Kissin'  an'  huggin'  they  were!    ..." 

"Why  didn't  you  go  an'  speak  to  them,  then?" 
she  had  replied,  and  he  had  answered,  "Don't  you 
know  rightly  he's  a  headstrong  man !" 

"You  never  saw  them  at  all.  You  couldn't  'a' 
seen  them,  for  they  weren't  there!  You  were 
dreamin',  Henry,  bad  dreams,  for  James  never 
stirred  out  of  the  door  that  night !" 

She  had  told  the  lie  bravely  and  easily,  and,  thus 
repulsed,  her  brother  had  gone  away  doubting  the 
value  of  his  sight.  The  story  had  grown ;  and  for 
that  Jane  MahafFy  was  to  blame;  but  she  ignored 
the  gabble  and  the  back-biting.  She  had  denied 
that  there  was  anything  between  her  husband  and 
her  sister,  and  she  did  not  propose  to  continue  dis- 
cussing the  affair  with  people  whose  minds  were  set 
on  gossip.  It  was  not  Henry's  fault  that  he  could 
not  keep  off  the  minister's  doorstep.  He  had  a  great 
deal  to  endure,  poor  man!  His  wife  was  a  bitter 
woman,  made  sour  by  her  childlessness.  .  .  .  Siie 
and  Henry  had  fallen  out  again.  They  passed  by  in 
the  street  without  speaking. 

But  if  she  told  her  neighbors  that  the  story  was 
a  lie,  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  it  was  true;  and 
sometimes    in    the    night    a   great    rage    would    swell 


86  MRS.  :\1ARTIN'S  MAN 

up  in  her.  and  she  could  hardly  keep  herself  still 
in  the  bed.  Sometimes  she  came  near  to  striking 
her  sister,  sometimes  she  longed  to  expose  her  to 
ignominy,  but  the  pride  that  was  the  boast  of  her 
family  held  her  hand  down  and  kept  her  tongue  quiet. 
She  said  that  Esther  should  stay  on  in  the  house 
Avith  her  although  the  girl  pleaded  to  be  allowed  to 
go  away. 

"No,  you'll  stop  here!  They'll  think  it's  true  if 
you  go  away !" 

"But  it  is  true!    ..." 

"I  know  it  is  .  .  .  but  we  needn't  tell  every- 
body !" 

There  was  some  cruelty  in  her  desire  to  keep 
Esther  by  her.  She  had  spoken  to  her  husband 
of  her  intention  to  let  her  stay  on  in  the  house,  and 
he  had  answered  indifferently.  "You  can  do  what 
you  like  with  her.  I  don't  want  her  no  more !  She's 
no  good !  Cryin'  an'  girnin'  all  the  time !  You'll 
not  bother  me  any  more,  the  pair  of  you !" 

When  she  heard  him  speak  in  that  manner,  she 
Avas  glad  of  her  decision  to  keep  Esther  with  her. 
She  had  a  wish  to  witness  the  girl's  pain  when  she 
learned  that  to  James  she  was  no  more  than  any 
other  woman,  a  creature  to  gratify  his  lust.  She 
liad  a  longing  to  look  in  on  Esther's  desolation,  to 
see  her  just  once  with  her  empty  heart.  Soon  after 
that  he  sailed  away,  and  when  he  had  been  gone 
a  month,  she  knew  that  she  was  to  be  a  mother  again. 
She  had  decided  to  open  the  shop  before  she  knew 
of  her  pregnancy,  for  he  had  never  supplied  her 
with  sufficient  mone}'  to  keep  the  house  comfortably. 
It  had  been  his  custom  to  give  to  her  a  sum  which 
he    considered    adequate    to    maintain    her    and    her 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  :\IAN  37 

children  until  his  return;  but  as  his  voyages  varied 
in  duration,  it  sometimes  happened  that  the  money 
was  expended  before  he  had  returned.  That,  how- 
ever, was  none  of  his  affair.  She  had  to  make  up 
the  deficit  as  best  she  could.  ...  It  may  be  said 
of  him  that  he  was  a  just  man.  Had  the  money 
been  more  than  sufficient  for  her  needs  during  his 
absence  from  home,  he  would  not  have  demanded 
a  refund  of  the  balance,  nor  would  he  have  reduced 
the  next  allowance  proportionately.  It  was  simply 
due  to  the  willfuhiess  of  things  that  there  never 
was  a  balance,  just  as  it  was  part  of  the  natural 
ill-luck  which  pursued  her  then,  that  the  fund 
was  frequently  depleted  before  he  returned  to 
replenish  the  purse.  He  made  no  inquiries  about 
the  expenditure,  nor  did  he  ask  whether  the 
sum  he  left  behind  him  was  sufficient  to  maintain 
her,  nor  did  she  tell  him  of  her  difficulties.  When 
his  first  voyage  had  ended  later  than  he  had 
anticipated  and  the  money  had  had  to  be  supple- 
mented by  laundry  work  and  such  other  ways  of 
earning  as  were  open  to  her,  she  had  not  mentioned 
the  matter  to  him  because  she  feared  that  she 
might  have  been  extravagant.  She  could  not  justly 
accuse  herself  of  being  a  spendthrift  when  she  re- 
viewed her  expenditure ;  but  she  believed  that  her 
husband  was  a  man  of  experience  and  strict  prin- 
ciples, and  she  could  only  conclude  that  inexperience 
had  led  her  into  unaccountable  extravagance;  so  she 
did  not  speak  to  James  of  the  inadequacy  of  her 
allowance. 

The  conclusion  of  his  second  voyage  coincided 
In  time  with  Ihe  depletion  of  her  fund,  and  this 
fact    seemed    to    her    to    he    positive    proof    of    the 


38  MRS.  MARTIN'S  .AIAN 

sagacity  and  farsight  of  her  husband.  The  third 
voyage  resembled  the  first:  the  fund  was  depleted 
before  his  return.  He  still  did  not  make  any  in- 
quiry, and  suddenly  knowledge  came  to  her.  He 
expected  her  to  keep  herself  and  the  children  no 
matter  how  long  he  might  be  away  from  home. 
.  .  .  She  had  thought  as  deeplj-^  as  she  could  over 
the  matter  in  the  long,  lonely  nights  when  she 
could  not  sleep,  and  plans  gradually  formed  in  her 
mind.  She  would  open  a  shop.  Perhaps  she 
could  make  it  so  profitable  that  James  would  not 
need  to  go  to  sea  again.  .  .  .  She  spoke  to  him 
of  her  idea  a  little  while  before  he  set  oft"  on  that 
last  voyage.  She  had  told  him  of  her  intention  to 
keep  Esther  with  her,  and  had  learned  with  joy  that 
he  had  no  love  left  for  the  girl.  Then  she  spoke 
of  her  plan. 

"Esther'll  be  a  help  to  me,"  she  said,  when  she 
had  finished  her  recital. 

"Well,  it's  nothin'  to  me,"  he  repHed.  "You  can 
start  what  you  like.  There's  your  money  for  you, 
an'  if  you  lose  it  on  a  shop,  it'll  be  your  own  look- 
out. You  can't  blame  me!  Forby,  I'll  not  bother 
you  no  more!    ..." 

She  had  heard  him  speak  a  similar  sentence  earlier 
in  the  evening,  but  she  had  not  paid  attention 
to  it. 

"What  do  you  mean,  James  .'^"  she  said. 

"It's  plain  enough,  what  I  say,  isn't  it?"  he  had 
snarled  at  her.  "You  understand  English,  don't 
you.?" 

"Ali,  but!    .    .    ." 

"I'm  not  comin'  back  to  you!  That's  what  I 
mean !     I'm  sick,  sore  an'  tired  of  you  all,  you  an' 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAX  39 

your  brotlier  Hcnrj-  an'  iiis  bitch  of  a  wife !  I'm 
tired  of  this  country!    ..." 

She  remembered  the  scowl  on  his  face  as  he  said 
that.  She  Jiad  stood  quite  still,  listening  to  hinu 
and  looking  at  him  as  if  she  were  trying  to  see  into 
his  mind.  She  could  not  believe  that  she  had 
heard  him  say  that  he  M-as  going  to  desert  her. 
She  knew  that  men  sometimes  left  their  wives, 
but.    ,    .     . 

"You're  not  comin'  back  to  me.'"'  she  had  said 
incredibly,  and  he  had  mocked  the  strained  voice 
in  which  she  had  spoken  as  he  answered,  "No,  I'm 
not  comin'  back !  I've  done  with  you,  I  tell  you, 
an'  I've  done  with  Esther,  too.  Her  an'  her 
cryin' !    .    .    . " 

Then  she  realized  that  what  he  said  was  true. 
The  terrible  infamy  of  desertion  was  to  be  hers. 
She  had  seen  men's  names  posted  on  the  door  of 
the  poorhouse,  with  a  reward  offered  for  their 
apprehension  .  .  .  and  she  was  to  be  a  woman 
like  those  poor  women.  She  had  strolled  over  to 
the  window  witiiout  knowing  what  she  was  doing, 
and  she  could  just  see  the  waves  rolling  up  over 
the  rocks,  breaking  into  galloping  white  horses, 
and  the  sea-gulls,  dipping  and  rising  and  dipping 
again  with  long,  fluttering  wings,  or  floating 
through  the  air  without  moving  their  wings  until 
they  had  made  a  wide  circle.  A  long  way  out, 
where  the  sea  and  the  dusky  clouds  were  joined 
together,  she  could  see  the  faint  outline  of  a  great 
steamer.  It  seemed  hardly  to  move,  though  the 
faint  trail  of  white  foam  behind  it  grew  longer  and 
longer.    .     .     . 

"Mebbe,  you'll   change  your  mind,"  she  had  said 


40  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

to  him,  without  turning  away  from  the  window, 
and  "Mebbe,  I  won't!"  he  had  replied.  She  did 
not  speak  again  for  a  little  while.  The  night  closed 
in,  and  the  great  steamer  with  its  trail  of  foam  was 
lost  in  the  darkness.  She  could  no  longer  see  the 
waves,  leaping  and  tumbling  and  splashing  on 
the  rocks,  but  she  could  hear  the  noise  they  made 
in  their  progress.  Her  eyes  felt  sore  with  watch- 
ing! .  .  .  Mrs.  Crothers  had  watched  like  that. 
.  ,  .  She  turned  wearily  toward  the  fire,  and  be- 
gan to  poke  it. 

"Will  I  make  your  tay?"  she  asked  in  a  toneless 
voice. 

"Aye,  if  you  please  !"  he  answered. 

She  set  the  kettle  on  the  coals,  and  then  prepared 
the  table  for  the  meal. 

"You   must   do   what   you   think   best,"   she   said, 
when  she  had  laid  the  white  cloth. 

"Aye,"   he   replied,   "that's   what   we   ail  have  to 

do!" 

Esther  came  in  and  they  sat  down  to  the  meal, 
but  none  of  them  spoke,  and  when  it  was  over, 
James  took  the  Belfast  Evening  Telegraph  and  read 
it  for  an  hour,  and  then  he  went  out  to  McConkey's 
Hotel.  He  ignored  Esther,  and  the  girl  gazed  at 
him  as  he  went  out  with  terrible,  appealing  eyes. 
When  he  had  gone,  she  sat  mutely  M'aiting  for  Mar- 
tha to  speak,  but  her  sister  busied  herself  with 
removing  the  remnants  of  the  meal. 

"Will  I  help  you,  Martha.?"  she  said  timorously. 

"No,  thank  you,  Esther !"  Martha  replied. 

She  put  the  table  back  into  its  place,  and  then 
she  went  to  the  fire  and  tidied  up  the  hearth. 

You  must  be  tired,  Esther,"  she  said,  when  she 


<iV 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAX  41 

liad  finished.  "You'd  better  go  up  to  ^our  bed  an' 
have  your  rest !" 

Esther  sat  still  for  a  few  moments.  It  seemed 
to  Martha  that  she  was  eager  to  sa}'  something, 
but  no  words  came.  She  went  upstairs  to  her 
room. 

"Good-night  to  you,  Martha !"  she  said,  and 
Martha  answered,  "Good-night,  Esther !" 

Neither  she  nor  James  spoke  again  of  his 
intention  to  leave  her.  He  came  home  from 
!McConkey's  Hotel  at  closing-time.  He  was  not 
drunk,  but  he  had  drink  taken.  .  .  .  He  kicked 
off'  his  boots,  and  walked  in  his  stockings  to  the 
bedroom. 

"Where's  the  candle?"  he  said. 

"Here  it  is,"  she  replied,  handing  it  to  him. 

He  took  it  from  her  without  s})eaking,  and  left 
her  to  bolt  the  doors.  When  she  entered  the  bed- 
room he  was  already  in  bed,  and  asleep. 

In  the  morning  he  went  away.  Esther,  red-eyed 
and  ashamed,  hid  herself  in  the  room  which  she 
shared  with  Jamesey.  She  did  not  know  that  her 
lover  was  already  tired  of  her,  or  that  he  had 
declared  his  intention  not  to  return  to  Bally reagh. 
She  had  lain  sobbing  on  her  bed  all  night,  saying 
to  herself  one  moment  that  she  would  never  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  James,  and  wondering 
at  the  next  moment  how  long  it  would  be  before 
lie  returned  to  her.  She  had  confessed  to  Martha 
h)ng  afterwaid  that  when  she  heard  the  street- 
door  open  and  shut,  she  had  risen  hurriedly  from 
lier  bed  and  gone  to  the  window  to  watch  James 
walking  down  the  street.  Her  mind  had  fiHeJ 
uith  wonder  when  she  saw  that  he  was  alone.    "She's 


452  AIRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

not  with  him!"  she  had  said  to  herself.  Then  she 
stood  at  the  window,  looking  after  him  until  he 
came  to  the  corner,  and  she  held  her  hand  ready 
to  wave  to  him.  But  he  had  not  turned  his  head 
to  look  back.  He  went  round  the  corner  as 
stiffly  as  he  had  walked  down  the  street,  without  a 
glance  of  farewell  to  those  whom  he  was  leaving. 
She  had  stood  gaping  at  the  corner  as  if  she  hoped 
that  it  would  disappear  so  that  she  might  see  him 
again,  and  the  dark  pools  of  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"He's  away,"  she  murmured,  "an'  he  never  looked 
back !" 

She  wiped  her  eyes,  and  then  looked  at  herself 
in  the  mirror  that  stood  on  the  table  under  the 
window. 

"I'm  the  quare  sight !"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
poured  some  cold  water  into  the  basin  and  bathed 
her  eyes. 

"You  didn't  go  with  him.'"'  she  said  to  Martha 
when  at  last  she  went  downstairs  to  the  kitchen. 

"No,"  Martha  replied,  "he  said  he'd  rather  be 
alone !    .    .    . " 

Esther  sat  on  the  long  seat,  and  gazed  into  the 
garden. 

"Did  he  say  anything  about  me?"  she  asked,  look- 
ing through  the  window. 

"No,"  said  Martha,  "he  didn't.  Will  you  have 
your  breakfast  now.'"' 

And  while  Esther  was  sitting  upstairs  in  the  bed- 
room crying  her  eyes  out,  he  and  she  had  sat  down 
to  their  last  meal  together.  His  face  was  unshaven, 
and  his  eyes  were  red-rimmed,  but  not  with  weeping, 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  4.S 

and  his  head  was  sore.  He  could  not  eat  the  bacon 
siie  offered  him. 

"I  don't  want  it,"  he  said.  "Gimme  a  drink  of 
tay!     That's  all  I  want!" 

She  helped  him  to  tie  his  bundles  securely,  and 
when  he  was  ready,  she  held  his  coat  for  him  while 
he  put  it  on. 

"Will  I  come  to  the  station  with  you.'"'  she 
said. 

"You  needn't  trouble  yourself,"  he  answered. 

"It's  no  trouble !    .    .    '. " 

"Id  rather  be  by  my  lone !" 

"Very  well,  James !" 

He  took  his  cap  off  the  peg  behind  the  door,  and 
stood  before  a  hand-glass  while  he  adjusted  it  on  his 
head.  Then  he  took  up  his  bundles  and  walked 
toward  the  door. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  Jamesey.'"'  she  asked. 

"I  haven't  the  time,"  he  said. 

"Good-by,  James!" 

He  nodded  his  head,  but  did  not  turn  to  look  at 
her, 

"So  long!"  he  said  as  he  went  out. 


CHAPTER    V 

A  BAND  was  playing  somewhere  near  at  hand,  and 
the  Hlting  jingles  made  a  gay  noise.  She  got  up 
from  her  seat  and  walked  around  the  tower  until 
she  came  to  another  seat  from  which  she  could  look 
down  on  the  town.  A  narrow  lane,  terminating 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  which  the  Moat  stood, 
ran  at  right  angles  to  the  Shore  Road.  Her  shop 
was  a  short  distance  from  the  corner  of  this  lane. 
.  .  .  For  a  little  while  she  ceased  to  think  about 
her  affairs.  She  allowed  her  eyes  to  glance  idly 
about  her.  The  Shore  Road  was  crowded  by  trip- 
pers, and  the  sound  of  laughter  and  jolly  talk  floated 
up  to  her  in  the  high  air.  She  could  see  parties  of 
girls  and  young  men  coming  from  the  direction  of 
the  station,  and  she  smiled  to  herself  when  she  saw 
their  pleasure.  A  girl  with  bright  eyes  would  look 
and  laugh  at  a  capering  youth,  and  a  man,  in  gay 
garments,  would  suddenly  catch  a  woman  by  the 
waist  and  hug  her  thougli  she  protested  shrilly.  .  .  . 
"The  young  things  are  that  happy,"  Mrs.  Martin 
murmured  to  herself.  So  the  crowd  passed  up 
and  passed  down :  old  men  and  old  women,  walking 
gently  and  looking  about  them  with  quiet  eyes  or 
standing  with  folded  hands  at  the  sea-wall  to  watch 
the  waves  splashing  against  the  rocks ;  young  men 
and    young    women     making    jokes    together    and 

44 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  46 

calling  out  gladlj'  because  of  the  Avarm  sunshine 
and  the  beauty  of  the  world ;  boys  and  girls,  shy 
lovers  newly  conscious  of  their  love,  taunting  each 
other  with  their  sudden  maturity ;  children  gallop- 
ing here  and  there,  uttering  shouts  of  surprise  at 
the  leaping  sea  and  the  never-ending  marvel  of  waves 
and  sand  and  rocks  and  seaweed  and  the  licaving 
movements  of  ships.  Mrs,  Martin  loved  sunshine 
and  gay  girls  and  laughing  men  and  the  sparkle  of 
the  sea  and  the  glow  of  bright  colors  on  ships  and 
hills  and  land  and  water.  A  long  way  out  at  sea, 
a  heat  mist  made  a  veil  across  the  sky  and  ocean, 
but  near  at  hand  the  sunlight  ran  in  little  silver 
ripples  across  the  jumping  waves  like  a  girl  who 
runs  from  her  lover  and  laughs  as  she  runs.  There 
were  boats  and  yachts  and  bigger  vessels  in  the  har- 
bor or  just  beyond  the  break-water,  and  the  white 
sails  and  the  brown  sails,  lit  b}'  sunshine,  mingled 
with  the  red  gunwales  and  the  green  gunwales  and 
the  black  bodies  of  the  boats,  and  made  one  lovely 
flame  of  color. 

"It's  happy  they  all  arc,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"and  it's  a  brave  day  for  them,  too.  It's  a  happy 
woman  I  am  this  hour!    ..." 

Her  mind  went  back  to  her  history,  and  she 
thought  of  the  way  in  which  she  had  begun  her 
business.  She  was  startled  when  she  thought  of 
the  light  manner  in  which  she  had  opened  the  shop. 
She  had  calmly  taken  on  responsibilities  which  might 
have  destroyed  her  .  .  .  she  realized  that  now 
.  .  .  but  when  she  had  taken  them  on  herself  they 
had  seemed  easy  enough  to  bear.  Her  husband 
had  deserted  her,  and  she  had  very  little  money.  It 
was   true   that   no   one   knew   of  her   desertion   and, 


46  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

it  was  true  that  Esther  still  had  the  money  left  to 
her  by  her  father,  and  it  might  have  been  that  these 
factors  operated  for  her  good  with  the  landlord 
and  the  tradesmen  in  Belfast.  She  had  not  asked 
Esther  to  lend  any  sum  to  her  because  to  have  done 
so  would  have  made  it  necessary  to  give  explana- 
tions ;  and  she  had  felt  that  she  could  not  tell  Esther, 
of  all  women,  the  story  of  her  husband's  perfidy. 
There  were  other  reasons  why  she  should  not  ask 
Esther  to  give  or  lend  money  to  her.  The  MahafFj^s 
had  a  strong  dislike  of  receiving  benefits  from  those 
with  whom  they  had  quarreled.  Esther's  fortune 
liad  been  bequeathed  to  her  by  her  father  who  had 
maintained  his  anger  against  Martha  on  his  death- 
bed. She  felt  that  it  would  have  been  mean  to  take 
his  money  (for  she  still  thought  of  it  as  his  money 
although  he  was  dead  and  it  legally  belonged 
to  Esther)  when  he  was  away  from  life,  knowing 
that  he  would  have  withheld  it  from  her  had  he  been 
alive. 

Her  lack  of  money,  however,  had  not  been  her 
only  trouble.  She  had  a  son  to  rear,  and  in  a  while 
she  was  to  be  the  mother  of  another  child.  .  .  . 
Whatever  she  decided  to  do  must,  she  had  known, 
be  decided  upon  quickly.  All  must  be  settled 
before  the  progress  of  her  pregnancy  disabled  her 
from  the  conduct  of  affairs.  .  .  .  She  had  spent  a 
week  in  thinking  and  planning.  Down  there,  in 
that  street,  now  thickly  peopled  with  men  and 
women  in  merry  mood,  she  had  paced  backward  and 
forward,  looking  at  the  shops  that  were  there, 
and  speculating  on  the  kind  of  shop  she  should 
open.  Her  first  thought  had  been  of  a  shop  for  the 
sale  of  confectionery.    That  seemed  the  most  obvious 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  47 

form  of  enterprise  for  her  to  undertake,  but  she 
swiftly  abandoned  the  idea  when  she  remembered 
how  many  shops  of  that  kind  there  were  already 
in  the  town  and  how  little  of  permanence  and 
necessity  there  is  in  the  demand  for  sweets.  "A 
ha'porth  of  lumps  or  a  penn'orth  of  yellow  man 
'ud  mebbe  be  all  you'd  sell  in  a  day !"  she  had 
said  to  herself.  Her  mind  had  revolted  from  the 
thought  of  opening  a  public-house,  but  even  if  it 
had  not  done  so,  a  public-house  was  impossible  for 
her.  There  were  enough  of  them  already*,  and 
such  traffic  needed  the  care  of  a  man.  Her  man ! 
.  .  .  She  had  thought  of  groceries,  of  draperies, 
of  newspapers,  of  baby-linen  and  of  vegetables.  Her 
mind  lingered  for  a  long  time  over  the  idea  of  baby- 
linen.  .  .  .  Then  she  had  suddenly  thought  of 
hardware.  She  had  been  sitting  at  the  door 
of  her  cottage  on  a  Saturday  evening.  The  boy 
was  sprawling  at  her  feet,  reaching  out  his  fat  little 
hands  to  grasp  the  wallflowers  and  mignonette 
and  London  pride,  and  as  she  had  stooped  to  lift 
him  out  of  harm's  way  and  bid  him  not  to  be  a 
wee  Tory,  she  thought  to  herself  that  her  shop  must 
be  one  that  was  not  already  to  be  found  in  Bally- 
reagh. 

"It'll  have  to  be  something  that  isn't  here  now," 
she  said  to  herself,  "an'  the  worst  of  that  is,  the 
people'll  mebbe  not  want  it  if  I  start  it!" 

She  had  asked  herself  what  common  necessity 
of  life  there  was  which  was  difficult  to  obtain  in 
liallyreagh. 

"Crocks,  of  course !"  she  exclaimed  so  sharply 
that  Jamesey  had  been  startled  and  had  tumbled 
over   on    his    .side,    bumping   his    brow    on    a   pebble. 


48  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

He  had  set  up  a  howl  nistantlj,  and  she  had  gathered 
him  up  in  her  arms  to  comfort  him. 

"Crockery,"  she  said  to  him,  "That's  what  it'll 
be,  Jamesey !  Crocker}^  and  delph  and  hardware ! 
There,  there,  son-dear,  an'  don't  be  cryin' !  Sure, 
don't  you  know  rightly  we  can't  get  hardly  any  in 
this  place,  an'  have  til  be  waitin'  til  the  man  comes 
round  with  the  handcart  from  Bangor,  mebbe,  or 
Newtownards,  an'  then  he'll  mebbe  not  have  what 
you  want!" 

" Wow-wow- wow !"  Jamesey  had  howled,  indif- 
ferent to  anything  but  the  bump  on  his  forehead. 

Thereafter  she  had  worked  swiftly;  and  the  shop 
had  been  prosperous.  Her  brother  Henry  had 
prophesied  that  the  venture  must  end  in  disaster 
since  she  had  neglected  to  consult  with  him,  and  he 
had  hinted  that  her  bankruptcy  would  certainly  be 
a  sign  of  God's  displeasure  at  her  impious  act  In 
permitting  Esther  to  remain  with  her  after  the  way 
in  which  she  had  misbehaved  herself.  "It's  not 
right,"  he  had  said,  "to  be  makin'  little  o'  God  that 
way!"  but  she  had  bidden  him  hold  his  tongue  or 
quit  the  house.  Other  wise  persons  had  urged  her 
to  abandon  her  wild  notion  of  engaging  In  the  sale 
of  crockery.  They  had  pointed  out  that  her  ex- 
perience of  trade  was  very  slight,  in  fact,  that  she 
had  not  had  any  experience  of  the  practical  man- 
agement of  a  shop  at  all;  and  they  besought  her 
to  turn  her  mind  toward  other  forms  of  industry 
more  suitable  to  women ;  charring,  laundry  work  and 
the  like.  The^'  had  suggested  that  she  should  let 
lodgings.  "You  might  do  well  for  yourself  in  the 
summer  when  the  visitors  come  to  the  shore!"  they 
said. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  49 

She  had  persisted  in  her  intention  to  deal  in  hard- 
ware. No  one  had  known  how  slender  were  her 
means  or  that  her  husband  had  gone  for  good. 
Her  cares  and  anxieties  were  known  only  to  her- 
self. She  sat  up  proudly  when  she  remembered 
that  although  she  had  been  with  child  when  she 
started  the  shop,  there  had  not  been  any  faintings 
or  complaints  or  alms-seeking  or  badgering  of 
friends  and  relatives.  No  one  had  known  when 
she  hired  the  shop  from  Mr.  Porter  and  paid  three 
months'  rent  in  advance  for  it,  that  she  had  no 
means  by  her  of  paying  for  a  second  quarter's  rent, 
nor  that  when  she  stocked  the  shop  with  delph  and 
chinaware  she  could  not  possibly  have  paid  for  it 
instantly  had  an  immediate  settlement  of  her 
account  been  demanded.  She  had  had  just  enough 
money  left,  after  she  had  paid  the  quarter's  rent 
in  advance,  to  provide  her  family  with  food 
for  a  few  weeks.  If  the  shop  were  to  fail.  .  .  . 
Her  chief  asset  wa^  her  good  name.  The  MahafFys 
were  a  respected  family.  Mr.  Porter  had  not 
pressed  her  to  pay  a  quarter's  rent  in  advance:  a 
month's  rent,  he  had  said,  would  be  sufficient; 
but  she  had  insisted  on  paying  the  larger  sum.  It 
was  the  way  of  the  Mahaffys,  she  had  said  to 
him,  to  be  on  the  safe  side ;  and  then  he  had  laughed 
at  her,  and  had  said  that  the  Mahaffys  were  as  safe 
as  anyone  or  anything  could  be ;  and  she  had 
laughed  too,  and  said  she  had  a  good  mind  to  test 
his  sincerity.  "Go  on,  an'  try  me!"  he  replied,  still 
laughing,  and  she  had  said,  "Well,  then,  I  will. 
You  can  go  bail  for  me  to  Luke  and  Macna- 
mara,  the  wholesale  hardware  people  in  Bel- 
fast!   ..."      "Och,      sure,      that's      nothin'      at 


50  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

all  to  test  me,"  he  answered.  "I'll  do  it 
gladly!" 

That  was  the  way  in  which  she  had  started  the 
shop.  It  might  have  failed.  She  might  have  been 
disgraced  by  bankruptcy.  .  .  .  She  shuddered  a 
little  as  she  thought  of  the  horror  of  not  paying 
debts  in  full.  But  she  had  succeeded.  There  had 
been  times  when  her  heart  trembled.  Those  were 
times  when  she  was  more  than  ordinarilv  conscious 
of  the  coming  child.  It  seemed  to  her  then  that 
James  had  not  only  flown  from  her  side,  but  had 
struck  her  heavily  in  his  flight.  But  she  had  suc- 
ceeded. She  had  thrust  all  her  misgivings  from 
her  mind,  and  had  determined  to  make  the  shop 
prosper.  She  took  Esther  up  the  road  that  leads 
to  Millisle  and  told  her  of  her  plans.  She  did  not 
tell  her  of  the  desertion,  but  she  told  her  of  all 
the  rest, 

"I  need  your  help  quaren  bad,  Essie !"  she  said, 
"an'  you'll  give  it  til  me,  won't  you.'"' 

"I  will  indeed !"  Esther  answered  fervently. 

"It's    quaren   good   of   you,"    she    replied    thank- 

fully. 

They  opened  the  shop  and  waited  for  the  cus- 
tomers to  come.  .  .  .  They  came.  Then  the  baby 
was  born,  and  it  was  called  Agnes.  They  had  lived 
behind  the  shop  for  several  years  until  the  business 
became  too  big,  and  then  they  had  moved  to  the 
cottaffe  where  old  Mrs.  Crothers  had  died  and  from 
Avhich  James  had  gone  on  that  last  journey'  from 
her  side.    .    .    . 

She  stood  up  and  gazed  down  at  a  group  of 
trippers  who  were  ascending  the  winding-path 
leading  to  the  summit  of  the  hill  on  which  the  Moat 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  51 

stood.     A  chill  ran  through  her,  and  she  drew  her 
cape  closely  about  her. 

"The  evcnin's  drawin'  in,"  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  descended  the  hill  and  came  again  into 
Moat  Street.  She  walked  toward  her  cottage.  He 
was  returning  to  her !  After  all  these  years  he  was 
coming  home  again!  Not  once,  since  he  had  left 
her,  until  the  previous  day  had  she  heard  from 
him.  Jamesey  had  asked  after  his  father,  and  so 
had  Esther  and  the  others,  but  she  had  answered 
that  she  knew  no  more  of  his  whereabouts  than 
they  did.  There  had  been  a  story  that  he  had 
been  captured  by  savages  and  was  kept  a  prisoner 
in  the  heart  of  Africa ;  and  her  brother  Henry  had 
believed  it.  He  had  written  to  the  Belfast  news- 
papers about  his  brother-in-law,  and  there  had  been 
a  paragraph  in  the  Northern  Whig  which  impressed 
Henry  and  his  friends,  but  infuriated  Martha.  She 
had  gone  to  Henry  and  begged  of  him  to  mind  his 
own  business,  but  he  had  been  in  a  mood  to  be  mag- 
nanimous. She  had  not  consulted  him  about  the 
shop.  She  had  flouted  his  opinion  with  regard  to 
Esther.  In  many  other  matters  he  had  been  treated 
disrespectfully ;  but  he  was  willing  to  overlook  the 
past.  He  had  admitted  that  her  business  had 
thriven,  and  she  had  foreborne  to  mention  that  his 
carrying  was  declining  since  the  development  of  the 
railway.  She  had  done  well  for  herself  in  many 
ways,  and  had  brought  up  her  children  in  a  God- 
fearing fashion.  He  would  give  all  credit  to  her, 
but  there  were  times  when  a  woman  needed  the  helj) 
of  a  man,  and  since  she  had  not  got  the  help  of 
her  own  man  she  should  have  his,  freely  and  without 
price. 


53  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"All  I  want  you  to  do,"  she  had  said  to  him,  "is 
to  leave  me  alone,  an'  not  be  interferin'  with  your 
nonsense  about  heathen  savages.  I've  done  well  with- 
out your  help,  an'  mebbe  I'll  continue  to  do  as  well 
without  it!" 

And  was  that  the  way  she  rewarded  him  for  the 
interest  he  took  in  her?  Was  that  the  thanks  he 
got  for  all  he  did  for  her?  Hadn't  he  put  an  ad- 
vertisement in  the  "Missing  Friends"  column  of  the 
Belfast  weekly  papers,  and  written  a  letter  to  the 
Queen  herself?  And  hadn't  he  got  an  answer  from 
her  that  was  dictated  out  of  her  owti  mouth  to 
her  secretary  that  he  could  show  to  her  if  she  would 
trouble  herself  to  step  up  the  road  to  his  house? 
Hadn't  the  secretary  signed  himself  "Your  Obedient 
Servant"  and  regretted  that  the  matter  was  not  one 
in  which  her  Majesty  could  interfere?  Didn't 
that  show  the  kind  of  respect  in  which  he  was  held 
by  the  quality  even  if  his  own  sister  made  little  of 
him?    .    .    . 

One  day  a  drunken  sailor  had  staggered  into  the 
shop.  .  .  .  When  she  heard  what  he  had  to  say, 
she  hurriedly  seized  him  and  thrust  him  into 
the  street  Avhere  he  lay  and  babbled  weakly  of  in- 
gratitude and  of  some  one  who  had  behaved  in- 
famousl3\  It  had  been  difficult  for  the  policeman 
to  understand  what  the  drunken  sailor  was  say- 
ing, but  he  evidently  referred  to  some  one  who  was 
living  in  Charlestown  with  his  wife.  Constable 
McKeown  arrested  him  for  being  drunk  and  in- 
capable, and  the  magistrates  sent  him  to  jail  for 
a  month.  ...  It  was  after  that  that  Martha  told 
the  story  of  tlie  way  in  which  her  man  was  drowned 
at   sea.      It  was   a   rumor   she  had  heard,   she   said. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  53 

James  had  left  his  boat  at  Charlestown  and  signed 
on  for  a  voyage  in  another,  and  the  story  was  that 
he  was  washed  over  the  boat's  side  in  a  storm  and 
drowned. 

"Mebbe,"  Esther  had  said,  "it's  not  true.  Some- 
times they  come  back  again,  an'  them  wasn't  drowned 
at  all !" 

"You  needn't  be  thinkin'  the  like  of  that,  Essie, 
for  he's  drowned  certain !" 

And  now  he  was  returning  to  her !  The  letter 
said  that  he  would  soon  be  with  her.  It  said  no 
more  than  that.  .  .  .  She  felt  that  she  nmst  tell 
some  one.  She  had  kept  the  news  to  herself  too 
long,  and  brooding  on  the  past  had  disturbed  her 
nerves.  She  hurried  to  her  door,  and  pushed  it 
open.  Perhaps  he  had  come  home  already.  He 
might  even  now  be  in  the  cottage  with  Esther,  for 
Esther  seldom  served  in  the  shop  now.  She  took 
care  of  the  cottage.  She  seemed  to  be  happier 
there  than  in  the  shop,  and  it  was  better  that  she 
should  be  so  for  her  manner  was  no  longer  gracious, 
and  some  of  the  customers  had  made  complaints. 
.    .    .    If  he  were  in  the  house  with  Esther.    .    .    . 

But  Estlier  was  alone. 

"What  ails  you,  Martha.?"  she  said,  gazing  at  her 
sister's   agitated   face. 

"He  hasn't  come  yet?    ..." 

"Who  hasn't  come  yet.?" 

"James." 

"Sure,  it's  not  his  time  yet.  He  goes  til  tlie 
futball  matches   in  Belfast  on  a  Saturday  !    .     .     ." 

"I  don't  mean  him — I  mean  his  da !    .     .    ." 

"You  mean!  ..."  Esther  looked  at  her  sister 
in    alarm.      "What's    happened    you,    Martlia?"    she 


54  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

said,  going  to  her  and  catching  hold  of  her  arm. 
"Are  you  sick  or  what?" 

Mrs.  Martin  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  waited 
until  she  had  recovered  from  her  swift  alarm. 

"It's  all  right,  Esther!"  she  said.  "I'm  not  de- 
mented mad.  You  needn't  look  so  scared.  He's 
comin'  home  the  day !" 

Esther  stood  still  before  her,  looking  at  her  as  if 
she  could  not  comprehend  what  she  was  saying. 

"Did  you  say  James  is  comin'  the  day.^"  she  said 
at  last. 

"Aye !" 

"But!   ..." 

"He  wasn't  drowned  after  all !" 

"Not  drowned.?" 

"No.  We'd  better  be  gettin'  the  tay  ready.  He'll 
mebbe  be  here  soon!" 

Esther  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  on  to 
the  sea. 

"D'you  hear  me,  Esther.'"'  said  Mrs.  Martin. 
"Come  an'  lay  the  table  for  the  tay !" 

She  still  stood  looking  out  of  the  window,  while 
Mrs.  Martin  dragged  the  table  into  the  center  of  the 
room,  and  began  to  spread  a  white  cloth  on  it. 

"We'll  need  two  or  three  barmbracks  and  some 
crumpets,  Essie,"  said  Mrs.  Martin. 

Esther  turned  to  her  sister.  "Martha,"  she  said, 
"do  you  know  what  you're  sayin'.?  Is  it  James  that's 
comin'  home.''    ..." 

"Aye,  Esther,  I  know  rightly  what  I'm  sayin'. 
It's  James  himself.  It's  my  man  that's  comin' 
back!    .    .    .    Will  you  fill  the  kettle.?" 

Esther  took  the  kettle  to  the  tap  in  the  scullery 
and  filled  it. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  .AlAN  55 

"It's  a  long  time  he's  been  away,"  she  said,  as  she 
put  it  on  the  coals. 

"Aye,  it  is.     It's  a  long  time,  Esther !" 
Esther  sat  down  before  the  fire,  and  folded  her 
hands    in    her    lap.      Her    eyes    were    shining    very 
brightly,  and  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  quickly. 


CHAPTER    VI 

Esther  had  been  sitting  at  the  fire  for  some  while, 
wlien  suddenly  she  got  up  and  walked  quickly  to 
the  door  of  the  cottage. 

"Are  you  goin'  out,  Esther?"  said  Mrs.  Martin, 
placing  a  plate  of  toasted  barmbrack  on  the  fender 
to  keep  warm. 

Esther  did  not  reply.  She  stood  in  the  doorway, 
looking  up  the  street.  The  dusk  had  fallen  now, 
and  oil-lamps  burning  in  the  houses  threw  a  pale 
light  through  the  windows  on  to  the  pavement.  A 
young  girl  was  closing  the  shutters  on  the  window 
of  her  home  as  Esther  gazed  about  her.  There  was 
a  sweet  smell  of  turf  fires  mingling  with  the  smell 
of  burning  furze  and  the  strong,  enlivening  air  of  the 
sea.  Mrs.  Martin  went  up  to  her  sister  and  touched 
her  on  the  arm. 

"Esther !"  she  said  quietly. 

Esther  turned  to  her,  and  she  saw  that  she  was 
crying.  She  drew  her  into  the  kitchen  and  shut 
the  door,  and  then  put  her  arms  round  her  and 
clasped  her  closely  to  her. 

"You're  not  thinkin'  about  what  happened  long 
ago.'"'  she  said.     "Sure,  that's   all  over  now!" 

Esther  nestled  her  head  on  her  sister's  breast, 
and  let  her  tears  run  freely.  "I  don't  know  what  I'm 
ihinkin'    about,"     she    sobbed,      "It's    that    sudden 

56 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  57 

.  .  .  him  comin'  back  .  .  .  I'm  all  throughother, 
that's  what  I  am,  an'  I  don't  hardly  know  what  I'm 
doin' !"  She  kept  silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
then  said  anxiously,  "You're  sure  it's  him  all 
right?" 

"Aye,  it's  him  right  enough.  No  other  man 
would  write  the  way  he  does,  just  tellin'  you  he's 
comin'  an'  not  sayin'  what's  happened  him  all  this 
time !" 

"I  wonder  where  he  was  all  the  while !    .    .    . " 

"The  dear  only  knows !"  replied  Mrs.  Martin. 
"Come  an'  sit  down  by  the  fire,  Esther,  an'  not  be 
tirin'  yourself,  too !" 

Esther  resumed  her  seat  by  the  fire,  and  Mrs. 
Martin  finished  her  work  of  laying  the  table  for  the 
tea.  She  took  a  mustache-cup  down  from  its  nail 
liigh  up  on  the  dresser,  and  laid  it  on  tiie  table,  and 
when  she  had  done  so,  she  laughed  lightly. 

"It's  quarc  to  see  a  nmstache-cup  on  our  table 
again !"  she  said.  "Jamesey  hasn't  got  a  mustache, 
an'  he  says  he  wouldn't  use   a  mustache-cup  if  he 


had !" 


Esther  answered  listlessly.  "They're  gey  an' 
ould-fashioned,  mustache-cups !" 

"Aye.  The  style  of  things  is  changin'.  People's 
not  like  what  they  were.  I  daresay  we'll  see  a  quarc 
differs  in  him  when  he  does  come !" 

Esther  turned  her  head  uneasily  toward  her  sister, 
and  made  as  if  to  speak  to  her,  but  she  clianged 
her  mind,  and  looked  again  toward  the  fire. 

"Were  you  wantin'  to  say  anything  to  me, 
Esther.?"  said  Mrs.  Martin. 

"No!  .  .  .  Did  James  mention  me  in  llio 
letter.?" 


58  MRS.  :MARTIN'S  MAN 

"He  didn't  mention  no   one  but  himself!" 

"I  wonder  what  he'll  be  like.    ..." 

"He'll  bo  changed,  I'm  thinkin'.  We'll  mebbe 
luirdly  know  him  he'll  be  that  altered !" 

"Aye,  I  suppose  he  will !"  She  sat  back  in  the 
chair,  and  let  her  mind  fill  with  memories.  "I  re- 
member him  as  well  as  anything,"  she  said.  "It's 
just  like  as  if  he  went  away  only  yesterday !" 

Mrs.  Martin  brought  a  chair  beside  her  and  sat 
down.  "You  always  had  a  good  memory,  Esther," 
she  said.  "The  childer'll  be  distracted  with  joy 
when  they  hear  about  him  comin'  back.  I  didn't 
tell  them  til  I  was  sure.  It  was  sore  work  not 
tellin'  Aggie,  an'  her  wonderin'  why  I  didn't  stop 
in  the  shop  the  day.  He  never  knew  about  her. 
She  was  born  after  he  went  away.  You  mind  that, 
Esther.?" 

"Aye,  I  do!" 

"It  must  be  quare  to  be  wanderin*  the  world, 
an'  you  havin'  a  fine  girl  growin'  up,  an'  you  not 
knowin'  nothin'  about  it.  It  would  be  a  quare  thing 
for  a  man  to  meet  his  own  child  in  a  strange  place, 
an'  him  not  know  who  it  was.  There's  mebbe  some 
that  happens  til !" 

Esther  nodded  her  head,  but  did  not  speak. 

"He'll  be  proud  of  her  when  he  does  see  her. 
She's  a  fine  girl,  an'  her  growin'  up  into  a  woman ! 
.     ,    .    Are  you  not  listcnin',  Esther,'"' 

"I'm  llstenin',  Martha !" 

Mrs.  Martin  leaned  forward  and  touched  her 
sister's  hands.  "What  is  it,  Esther?"  she  said 
gently. 

"Martha !" 

"Yes,  Esther,  dear!" 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  59 

"Mebbe — mcbbc  you'll  not  ha  wantin'  me  to  stay 
here  any  more?" 

"Why  wouldn't  I  be  wantin'  you  to  stay, 
Esther?" 

Esther  hesitated  a  little  while  before  she  replied. 
She  interlaced  her  fingers  in  Mrs,  Martin's,  and  they 
sat  thus  in  silence. 

"Why  wouldn't  1  be  wantin'  you  to  stay,?"  Mrs. 
Martin  said  again. 

"You  know  why  he  went  away !"  said  Esther 
softly. 

"Why  he  went  away?"  Indeed,  she  knew  well, 
but  she  had  no  mind  to  reveal  her  knowledge  to 
anyone.  "He  went  away  because  it  was  time  for  him 
to  go,"  she  said. 

Esther  patted  the  linked  fingers  with  her  free 
hand.  "Aye,  but  you  know  well  what  I  mean,  Mar- 
tha, though  you  don't  want  to  say  it.  It's  no  good 
pretendin'  about  it!  You  mind  about  him  an'  me, 
don't  you.''" 

"Ah,  don't  go  an'  be  thinkin"  about  that,  Esther, 
dear!  Sure,  that's  near  sixteen  years  ago. 
No,  it's  more !  It's  more  nor  sixteen  years  ago. 
It  would  be  a  poor  thing  for  a  woman  to  be 
hoardin'  the  like  of  that  in  her  mind  all  them 
years !" 

"You  have  to  be  remembcrin'  something,"  Esther 
replied,  "when  you've  little  to  treasure!"  She  got 
up  as  she  spoke,  and  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
kitchen,  wearily  stretching  herself.  "I'd  better  be 
goin',  Martha.  You've  been  that  kind  to  me, 
I  wouldn't  bring  trouble  on  you  again  for  the  whole 
world!" 

They  began  to  speak  openly.    For  the  first  time  in 


60  ]MRS.  xMARTIN'S  MAN 

their  lives  they  spoke  of  Esther's  love  for  Martha's 
husband,  and  spoke  of  it  frankly. 

"I  went  with  him,"  said  Esther,  in  the  toneless 
voice  of  one  who  speaks  of  things  that  happen  and 
cannot  be  helped.  '"Did  you  know  that,  Martha? 
I  went  with  him.     Up  at  the  Moat  one  night." 

"I  thought  you  did,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered 
quietly. 

"That  wasn't  the  only  time,  neither." 

"No?" 

Esther  came  back  to  the  fire  and  stood  by  her 
sister's  side.  "There  were  other  times,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper. 

Neither  of  them  spoke.  They  remained  silent, 
while  the  firelight  sent  red  flames  about  the  kettle, 
and  lit  the  room  with  sudden  leaps  of  light  that 
cast  great  jutting  shadows  round  the  room.  The 
kettle  began  to  boil,  and  they  could  hear  the  slow 
song  of  the  bubbling  water  in  it,  and  then  it  grew 
louder  and  louder  until  it  silenced  the  noise  of  the 
sea  outside  on  the  rocks,  and  the  splash  and  explo- 
sion of  great  waves  throwing  themselves  into  caverns 
in  the  cliffs. 

"The  kettle's  boilin' !"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  lifting 
it  off  the  chain  from  which  it  was  suspended  over 
the  coals. 

Esther  laughed  nervously.  "It's  funny,"  she  said, 
"I  never  had  a  child !" 

Mrs.  Martin  placed  the  kettle  on  the  hob,  and 
then  took  the  tea-pot  off  the  fender,  and  filled  it 
with  hot  water. 

"Aye,"  she  said,  "it's  funny !" 

'•'I  don't  know  when  he'll  come,"  she  added,  put- 
ting the  teapot  on  the  table.     "So  we'd  better  be 


MRS.  MARTIxVS  MAN  61 

havin'  our  tay,  an'  then  mebbc  j^ou'll  go  down  to 
the  shop,  an'  let  Aggie  come  up  for  hers.    ..." 

"You  see,  don't  you,"  said  Esther,  without  stir- 
ring from  the  fire,  "that  I'd  better  be  goin'.  It'll 
mebbe  be  hard  to  do  right,  an'  I  couldn't  thole  to 
hurt  you,  Martha !" 

"Come  an'  have  your  tay,  Esther!" 

Esther  moved  to  the  table,  and  took  her  place, 
and  they  began  the  meal,  after  Martha  had  bowed 
her  head  and  said  aloud,  "For  what  we  are  about 
to  receive,  thank  God.     Amen." 

"Mebbe  j-ou're  right,  Esther!"  Mrs.  Martin  said, 
handing  the  plate  of  toasted  barmbrack  to  her  sis- 
ter. "Would  you  like  to  go  an'  live  with  Henry  an' 
his  wife.''" 

Esther  shook  her  head  decisively.  "No,"  she  said, 
"I  couldn't  thole  that.  I  can't  bear  Jane,  an'  you 
know  I  can't.  I'll  mebbe  go  to  Belfast  or  to  America 
or  somewhere  out  of  this.  It  would  be  better  for 
me  to  be  away  nor  to  be  here !" 

"I  wouldn't  like  you  to  go  far,  Esther  I    ..." 

Esther  broke  a  piece  of  the  barmbrack  and  put  it 
in  her  mouth.  "There'll  mebbe  be  little  change  in 
him  after  all,  when  he  comes,"  she  said.  "Only  his 
hair  gray,  an'  his  face  aged,  an'  his  heart  the  way  it 
was  when  he  went  away !" 

Mrs.  Martin  drank  some  of  her  tea,  glancing  over 
the  edge  of  her  cup  at  Esther  as  she  did  so. 

"You're  changed  yourself,  Esther,"  she  said. 
"You're  quarely  altered.  Your  face  isn't  so  soft  an' 
roun'  as  it  used  to  be,  an'  your  eyes  is  not  so  bright 
as  they  were.  You're  altered  a  great  deal.  You 
were  a  fine-lookin'  girl  one  time,  just  like  Aggie. 
But  you're  not  now !     You've  spoiled  yourself  some 


6^1  MRS.  .MARTIN'S  MAN 

way,  I  don't  hardly  know  what  way,  but  you've 
spoiled  yourself.  You're  gettin'  to  look  quarcn  like 
me,  Avith  a  sharp  face,  the  way  a  Mahaffy  woman 
g-ets  sometimes  when  she's  ould  or  hasn't  had  her 
wish.  An'  James  was  the  great  boy  for  young,  soft 
girls,  Esther!  You  mind  that,  don't  you.^*  He 
liked  to  look  at  them  if  he  couldn't  do  no  more. 
It  was  like  you  an'  me  goin'  down  to  the  shore, 
an'  lookin'  at  the  watter.  .  .  .  Mebbe,  you'll  not 
have  no  call  to  be  goin'  away!  You  forget  you 
were  only  twenty  when  he  was  here  afore,  an'  now 
you're  over  thirty-six,  Esther!  You're  not  the  same 
any  more !" 

"I'm  not  improved  on  it,  you  mean.-^"  said  Esther. 

"You  are  not,  dear!"  She  waited  for  a  few  sec- 
onds before  she  asked  the  question  she  had  been 
trying  to  ask  all  evening.  "Are  you  still  in  love 
with  him,  Esther.'"'  she  said. 

"I  think  I  am,  INIartha." 

They  could  hear  tlie  click-tick,  click-tick  of  the 
clock  beating  steadily,  and  now  and  then  the  thud 
of  the  sea  outside. 

"Then  mebbe  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  go 
somewhere  else,  Esther,  if  you  feel  that  wa3%  I 
couldn't  bear  it  again,  dear !  I  tholed  enough  that 
time,  an'  I  could  thole  no  more.  I  must  have  him 
to  myself  now,  Esther,  after  all  I've  bore  for  him. 
It's  been  hard  an'  lonesome,  an'  many's  the  time 
I  had  a  bitter  word  on  my  tongue  to  say  to  you,  an' 
a  bitter  thought  in  my  mind  against  3'ou  both,  but 
I  kept  quiet,  for  what  was  the  use  of  sayin'  things 
an'  thinkin'  things.  .  .  .  You  near  took  him  away 
from  me  that  time,  Esther,  dear,  but  you  didn't. 
I  can't  let  you  do  it  again,  dear !" 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  63 

"Mebbe  I  wouldn't  be  able  if  I'm  turnin'  ould 
an'  thin  the  way  you  say  I  am,"  said  Esther 
bitterly. 

''Mebbe  not.  Anyway,  M'e'U  think  about  it  in 
a  wee  while.  There's  no  call  to  be  botherin'  our 
heads  about  him  this  minute.  Will  you  pass  your 
cup.?" 

""I  don't  want  no  more,  thank  you,  ]Martha !" 

"Then  mebbe  you'll  ^o  down  an'  tell  Aggie  to 
come  up  for  her  tay,  an'  you  can  tell  her  her  da's 
comin'  home  if  you  like,  though  mebbe  he'll  not 
come  after  all.  We'll  shut  the  shop  early 
the  night.    ..." 

"Aye,"  said  Esther,  getting  ready  to  go  out. 
"Will  you  be  wantin'  anything  extra  in?" 

"There's  everything  in  the  house,  thank  you, 
Esther!" 

Esther  stood  in  the  doorway  indecisively.  "I 
wonder  will  he  come  soon,'"  she  said,  almost  to 
herself. 

"There's  no  good  in  you  standin'  there  wonderin', 
Esther,  dear.  He'll  come  when  he's  here,  an'  not 
before,  an'  the  dear  only  knows  when  he'll  be  here. 
Go  on  down,  now,  to  the  shop,  for  Aggie'll  be  fam- 
ished if  you  don't  hurry  !" 

Esther  looked  into  the  street.  "Here's  Jamcsey 
comin',"  she  said,  as  she  turned  to  go  out. 

Jamesey  Martin  came  up  to  the  door  as  she  did 
so. 

"How're  you,  AunL  Esther?"  he  exclaimed, 
walking  quickly  into  the  kitchen  as  he  greeted 
her. 

"I'm  bravely,  thank  you,  Jamesey!"  said  Esther, 
as  she  walked  off*  toward  the  shop. 


64  MRS.  ]\IARTIN'S  MAN 

Jamesey  Martin,  who  was  nineteen  years  of  age, 
had  a  quick,  sharp  manner.  His  voice  was  domi- 
neering, and  when  he  spoke,  his  words  rattled  out 
of  his  mouth  like  gun-shots.  His  looks  were  good, 
and  he  resembled  his  Aunt  Esther,  except  that  his 
features  had  not  that  drawn,  waiting  look  which 
hers  had,  nor  was  there  a  note  of  querulousness  in 
his  voice.  He  threw  his  cap  carelessly  into  the 
window-seat. 

"Is  that  you,  Jamesey,?"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  look- 
ing up  at  him  and  smiling. 

He  went  over  to  her  and  kissed  her.  "Aye,  ma. 
Is  the  tay  ready?" 

"Your  Aunt  Esther  an'  me's  had  ours.  I'll  make 
some  fresh  tay  for  you.  It'll  be  ready  in  a 
wee  while!" 

"Where's  ray  Aunt  Esther  away  to.?"  he  said, 
drawing  a  chair  up  to  the  table.  He  began  to  forage 
among  the  remnants  of  his  mother's  meal  for  tasty 
bits  to  eat.  "I  declare  to  me  God,  you've  got  barm- 
brack  !    Is  there  a  party  on  or  what.?" 

"She's  away  down  to  the  shop  to  tell  Aggie  to 
come  up  for  her  tay,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered,  as  she 
brewed  the  tea. 

"It's  not  often  she  goes  that  length.  Is  there 
anything  ailin'  yourself  that  you're  here  an'  not 
there?" 

"Nothin'  at  all,  son !   .    .    . " 

"Is  the  tay  near  ready  yet?"  he  said,  turning  to 
the  fire,  and  interrupting  her  speech. 

"In  a  wee  while  i   .    .    . " 

"I  hope  Aggie'll  not  be  long  over  her  tay,  for  I 
want  to  go  over  to  Millisle  with  my  Aunt  Esther, 
There's  a  wee  girl  from  Belfast  stoppin'  with  Maggie 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  65 

Gather,  ma,  an'  she's  the  quare  nice  wee  girl,  too. 
Man-a-dear,  I'm  just  dotin'  on  her,  but  I  don't  like 
to  go  over  by  meself.  It  looks  too  much  like  the 
tiling,  an'  if  my  Aunt  Esther  was  with  me,  I  could 
let  on  I  was  leavin'  her  up  the  road,  an'  her  feard 
of  the  dark!    ..." 

Mrs.  Martin  brought  the  teapot  to  the  table,  and 
poured  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  her  son.  She  handed 
it  to  him,  and  he  began  to  drink  noisily.  She  rubbed 
his  head  with  her  hand,  and  ruffled  his  hair.  "You're 
an  awful  boy  for  girls,"  she  said,  "an'  you're  always 
dotin'  on  some  one!" 

"Och,  ma,  dear,  quit!"  he  replied,  "you  have  my 
hair  all  scattered.  Have  you  any  more  of  that 
barmbrack .'"' 

She  took  a  plate  of  toasted  barmbrack  from  the 
oven  and  set  it  before  him. 

"Your  da's  comin'  home,  Jamesey !"  she 
said. 

He  turned  to  her  quickly,  and  saw  that  she  was 
smiling  at  him.  "Ah,  for  dear  sake,  ma,  quit  cod- 
din'!"  he  said.  "Sure,  you're  the  quare  ould  hum- 
bug! Give  us  a  drop  more  tay,  for  I'm  near  dead 
with  the  drouth!" 

"You're  da's  comin'  home,  Jamesey,  son !  I 
wouldn't  be  tellin'  you  a  lie,  child-a-dear !" 

Jaraescy  was  so  startled  by  her  announcement  that 
he  forgot  himself  and  swore  in  her  presence. 

"Holy  Jases !"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  him  yesterday  mornin'.  He's 
comin'  the  day.  He'll  mebbe  be  here  any 
minute !" 

He  sat  gaping  at  her,  and  she  could  not  help 
smiling    at    tlic    comical    fippearance    of   him.      His 


66  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

mouth  was  opeii,  and  he  held  a  piece  of  the  toasted 
bun  in  his  hand. 

"Shut  your  inouth,  dear,"  she  said. 

He  carried  the  piece  of  barmbrack  to  his  mouth, 
and  slowly  chewed  it  while  he  reflected  on  Avhat  his 
mother  had  said  to  him.  "You're  havin'  me  on !" 
he  said  after  a  while. 

"Did  I  ever  make  a  cod  of  you,  Jamesey.'"'  she 
asked. 

"Aye,  indeed,  3'ou  did.     ]\Iany's  a  time!" 

"Ah,  but  not  an3^thing  important,  Jamesey,  dear. 
Not  about  your  da.  .  .  .  He's  comin'  home,  he 
says!"  She  put  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  and  took 
out  the  letter  she  had  received  from  her  husband. 
"There's  the  letter  itself!" 

He  took  it  from  her  and  read  it  through,  and  then 
gave  it  back  to  her.  "It's  a  quare  sort  of  a  letter 
that,  for  a  man  to  write  to  his  wife,  an'  him  not 
seein'  her  the  length  of  time  he's  been  away  from 
you!     What  like  was  he.'^" 

"Very  like  you,  son !" 

"I  wonder  where  he's  been  all  the  time.  Do  you 
mind  that  story  used  to  be  goin'  about,  about  him 
bein'  captured  b}'^  cannibals  an'  near  ate.  .  .  .  Och, 
wasn't  that  the  quare  ould  cod !  My  Uncle  Henry 
was  quarely  took  in  by  it,  an'  him  writin'  til  the 
ould  Queen  an'  all!" 

"He'll  tell  us  where  he  was  when  he  comes 
back !" 

She  still  held  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and  he  reached 
over  and  took  it  from  her.  "I  wonder  did  he  write 
it  at  all,  or  is  it  some  lad  tryin'  to  be  funny.  13}^ 
the  Holy  God,  if  it's  one  of  them  hoaxers,  I'll  skelp 
the  head  off  him  !" 


MRS.  :\rARTIX'S  MAN  67 

"Jamesey,  son,  don't  be  takin'  God's  name  in  vain 
the  way  you're  doiii'.  I  don't  think  it's  a  lioax 
— it's  like  to  him  to  write  that  abrupt  way,  but 
we'll  know  in  a  wee  while.  He  might  be  here  an}' 
time !" 

The  boy  got  up  from  the  table,  and  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  fire. 

"It's  a  quare  set-out,  this,"  he  said  half  to  him- 
self. 

"Will  you  not  be  glad  to  see  him  back,  son?" 

"Och,  1  daresa}"^  I  will,  only  it's  that  sudden  I 
don't  hardly  know  what  to  do.  Does  my  Uncle 
Henry   know   he's   comin'?" 

Mrs.  Martin  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  I  suppose  some  one  ought  to  tell  him. 
I'll  dander  round  to  his  house,  an'  I'll  mebbe  step 
into  the  shop  on  my  way  back,  an'  bring  my  Aunt 
Esther  home!    ..." 

"Sure,  what's  the  good  of  that.''  You'll  not  be 
goin'  to  Millisle  the  night,  will  you.'"' 

"No,  but!  ..."  He  stopped,  as  if  he  could 
not  account  for  his  desire  to  bring  his  aunt  back 
with  him.     "Well,  anyhow,  I'll  bring  her,"  he  said. 

"All  right,  then.  You  can  close  the  shop,  an' 
bring  Aggie   along  with  you !" 

He  went  out  and  left  her  alone.  It  seemed  a 
strange  thing  to  her  that  her  son  should  be  so  de- 
voted to  his  aunt.  They  were  like  two  chums.  He 
confided  in  her  and  told  her  of  his  loves,  for  he  had 
a  changeable  heart,  and  loved  often  though  not 
long.  Jamesey  loved  his  mother,  too,  loved  her  very 
flearly,  but  she  was  his  mother,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  relationship  which  made  him  shy  of 
her  until  he  had  told  his  stories  to  his  Aunt  Esther, 


68  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

and  then  as  if  he  had  become  more  familiar  with 
them,  he  could  easily  speak  of  them  to  his  mother. 
Sometimes  Mrs.  Martin  felt  angry  when  he  sought 
so  insistently  for  his  aunt.  He  was  so  like  his 
father,  and  his  father  had  been  Esther's  lover  ,  .  . 
but  her  nature  was  very  large,  and  anger  dissolved 
speedily  in  the  warmth  of  her  heart. 

"Mebbe,  it's  as  well,"  she  would  say,  "for  Esther 
to  be  havin'  him  love  her  like  that,  than  for  her  not 
to  be  havin'  no  one  at  all!" 


CHAPTER    VII 

When  Jamesey  had  been  gone  from  the  cottage 
some  while,  Mrs.  Martin  closed  the  shutters  on  the 
Avindows,  and  lit  the  oil  lamp.  She  glanced  about 
the  room,  when  she  had  done  this,  and  she  could 
not  help  thinking  how  much  more  comfortable  the 
house  was  than  it  had  been  when  James  went  away. 
There  was  very  little  of  old  Mrs.  Crothers'  goods 
left  in  the  place:  all  her  furniture  had  been  ac- 
quired, piece  by  piece,  at  sales  here  and  sales  there; 
and  it  was  solid,  fine  furniture  with  the  marks  of 
years  on  it.  The  Sebastopol  on  the  mantelshelf — 
which  Jamesey,  when  he  was  a  child,  would  always 
call  the  Sevastapull — had  been  Mrs.  Crothers'  prop- 
erty, and  so,  too,  had  been  the  china  ornaments  and 
the  clock  on  the  wall,  but  all  else  was  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin's. 

"Heth,"  she  said  to  herself,  "he's  corain'  home 
til  a  better  house  nor  he  left  behind  him  when  he 
went  away !" 

She  had  settled  herself  warmly  before  the  fire, 
when  she  heard  the  latch  rattling,  and  then  her 
brother  Henry  came  into  the  kitchen  followed  by 
his  wife.  Henry  Mahafi'y  had  grown  very  round 
and  very  short  of  breath,  and  the  roundness  of  him 
made  him  seem  smaller  than  he  was.  His  eyes 
were  little,  but  they  had  not  the  sparkle  which  lit- 

09 


70  MRS.  IMARTIiN'S  MAN 

tie  eyes  often  have:  they  were  dull,  humorless  and 
torpid;  they  were  fat  eyes.  If  Henry  Mahaffy's 
eyes  could  have  been  taken  out  of  his  head 
and  placed  apart  from  his  body,  a  moderately 
intelligent  man  would  have  knoAvn  instantly 
he  saw  them  that  the  body  from  which  they  came 
was  a  fat  body :  not  a  body  that  is  fat 
with  jolliness,  a  moving,  palpable  thing  shaking  with 
laughter,  but  just  a  piece  of  corpulence;  obese;  a 
flabby  hulk  of  tissue.  His  wife  had  none  of  his 
fatness,  but  she  had  much  of  his  flatulence 
of  spirit.  She  was  a  lean,  acid  woman  of  querulous 
and  inquisitive  disposition.  She  had  the  hardness 
of  granite  but  none  of  the  glint.  Her  nature  had 
always  been  stony,  and  the  passage  of  the  years 
had  softened  none  of  her  asperities.  Her  soul  had 
ossified ;  for  the  desire  that  she  had  for  a  child  had 
never  been  satisfied,  and  the  love  that  might  have 
come  out  of  that  flinty  breast,  had  turned  sour  in 
her  heart. 

•'Are  you  in.^"  said  Henry  Mahaff*3s  puffing  as  he 
came  through  the  door. 

Mrs.  Martin  had  started  up  at  his  entry, 
but  when  she  saw  who  it  was,  she  sat  doAvn 
again. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Henry.'"'  she  said.  "An'  you, 
Jane?  You  startled  me,  the  pair  of  you.  I  thought 
it  was.  .  .  .  Come  on  in,  do,  an'  sit  down.  You're 
the  great  strangers !" 

Henry  Mahaffy  pulled  an  armchair  up  to  the 
fire,  and  sat  down  heavily  in  it.  "Ah,  God  help 
us !"  he  said,  and  that  was  his  way  of  sighing 
with  relief.  His  wife,  dour  and  implacable,  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  her  arms  folded,  her  lips 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  71 

tightl}'  set,  and  her  mantle  and  bonnet  signifying 
anger  by  their  stiff  look. 

"Aye,  it's  a  good  while  since  we  put  our  feet  in 
this  house,"  said  Henry  MahafFy,  stretching  his 
hands  toward  the  fire  to  warm  them.  "An'  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  news  Jamesey's  just  after  bringin'  us, 
it  might  be  a  good  wee  while  yet  before  we  darkened 
your  door !" 

Mrs.  MahafFy,  still  standing  in  the  center  of  the 
floor,  took  the  talk  from  her  liusband.  "Aye,"  she 
said,  "that's  why  we're  here,  Martha.  We're  mebbe 
not  welcome !    .     .    . " 

"You're  right  an'  welcome,  Jane,  whenever  you 
choose  to  call!"  Mrs.  Martin  said. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  But  even  if  we  weren't 
Avelcome,  we'd  'a'  come,  for  Henry's  the  head  of  your 
family,  Martha,  an'  it's  only  right  and  proper  he 
should  be  informed  of  wliat  goes  on.  Is  James  home 
yet.?" 

"No,  he's  not.  Sit  down,  Jane,  an'  take  off  your 
things,  an'  don't  be  unneighborly.  Here,  give  your 
bonnet  an'  cape  to  me.  You'll  stop  an'  have  a  bite 
of  something  to  ate!" 

Mrs.  MahafFy  handed  her  bonnet  and  mantle  to 
her  sister-in-law,  and  then  took  a  chair  close  to  her 
husband,  where  she  sat  as  stifHy  as  she  had  stood 
before,  with  her  hands   folded   in  her  lap. 

"We've  had  our  tay,  thank  you,  Martha !"  she 
said  acidly.  "Forby,  we  couldn't  think  of  troublin' 
you.    ..." 

"It's  no  trouble  to  give  a  person  a  cup  of  tay, 
Jane,  an'  a  bite  to  ate!" 

"An'  it's  such  a  \()r\(r  time  since  we  were  in  this 
house  that  we  hai-dly  like  to  l;ikc  unyHung!" 


72  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

Mrs.  Martin  laid  Mrs.  Mahaffy's  garments  aside 
in  a  safe  place.  ""It's  not  my  fault,  Jane,"  she  said, 
"You've  not  been  here  this  long  while !" 

Henry  Mahaff'y  rolled  himself  about  in  his  chair, 
and  slapped  his  knees,  and  said,  "Well,  well!"  and 
"Now,  now !"  and  tried  to  act  magnanimously : 
"Let  bygones  be  bygones,  Jane,  woman!"  he  said. 
"You  wouldn't  be  quarrelin'  on  a  day  like  this,  with 
James  returning  to  his  home  an'  all.  This  is  a 
time  for  rejoicin',  Jane,  an'  liftin'  up  your  heart 
to  sing  a  tuneful  song  to  the  Lord  for  all  His  won- 
drous deeds.  Aye !  Aye,  aye !  So  James  has  come 
back,  Martha.'"'  He  turned  to  his  sister  as  he 
spoke. 

"Not  yet,  Henry!  I  don't  know  when  he'll  be 
here.  He  writ  a  letter,  an'  said  he'd  come  as  soon 
as  I  got  it.  I  received  it  yesterday,  but  he's  not 
here  yet !" 

"Some  one's  been  coddin'  you,  Martha !"  said  Jane 
Mahaffy. 

Mrs.  Martin  showed  the  letter  she  had  received 
from  her  husband  to  them,  and  they  read  it  and 
re-read  it. 

"Well,  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Martha!"  said 
Henry  MahafFy,  as  he  returned  the  letter  to  her, 
"lettin'  yourself  be  took  in  by  a  thing  like  that. 
Sure,  anybody  with  half  an  eye  in  their  head 
could  see  that  was  a  hoax.  A  man  was  missin' 
for  sixteen  years  wouldn't  be  writin'  a  letter  like 
that  to  his  wife,  not  givin'  no  explanation  or 
nothin'.  I  declare  to  my  God,  Martha,  you're 
like  a  child  over  him.  I  thought  you  had  more 
wit !" 

She  smiled  at  him.     "You  can  say  what  you  like, 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  73 

Henry,  an'  I  don't  blame  you  for  sayin'  it,  for  it's 
a  strange  letter  for  any  woman  to  get  from  her 
man,  an'  a  stranger  letter  for  a  woman  to  get  from  a 
man  she  hasn't  seen  the  length  of  time  I  haven't 
seen  him,  but  all  the  same,  Henry,  it's  from  him 
right  enough.  I  know  it  is.  It's  the  kind  of  him 
to  write  like  that.  I  don't  know  when  he'll  come, 
but  I  know  that  he  will  come !" 

"I  wonder  what  he  was  doin'  in  America.'*"  said 
Jane. 

"I  don't  know,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered.  "Some- 
thing or  other,  I  suppose !" 

"It's  a  quare  sort  of  a  story.  .  .  .  America's  not 
that  far  that  he  couldn't  write  or  come  home.  .  .  . 
Wasn't  there  some  story.'*"  continued  Jane  Mahaffy, 
but  her  husband,  alarmed  lest  the  past  should  be 
called  up  too  closely  for  his  liking,  interrupted  her. 

"Now,  we'll  not  be  rakin'  up  ould  tales,  Jane, 
that's  better  let  alone.  Martha  knows  no  more  nor 
you  an'  me  about  him,  an'  we'll  just  have  to  wait  'til 
he  comes  home  before  we  find  out  what  he's  been 
doin'  all  this  time !" 

"You'd  think  he'd  run  away  from  you,"  said 
Jane. 

"Aye,  you  would,  wouldn't  youi"'  Mrs.  Martin 
replied. 

"Och,  go  'long  with  you,  Jane !"  exclaimed  Henry 
MahafFy.  "What  would  he  run  away  from  her 
for,  an'  her  a  Mahaffy,  an'  got  a  gran' 
business !" 

"There's  many  a  thing  a  man  might  leave  a 
woman  for,  even  if  she  was  a  MahafFy.  .  .  .  Well, 
now  he's  comin'  home,  I  hope  he'll  stop  home,  an' 
be   ft   comfort    to   you,   Martha,   in   your   ould    ago, 


74  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

though  it's  poor  comfort  a  man  is  to  any  woman. 
I  don't  know  what  you'll  do  with  him !" 

Her  husband  .sat  up  in  his  seat,  and  glared 
angrily  at  her.  "That's  an  unnatural  thing  you're 
after  sayin',  Jane,  woman !"  he  said.  "An'  you 
know  well  it  is,  for  all  you'll  mebbc  not  admit 
it!" 

But  Mrs.  Mahaffy  would  not  be  persuaded  from 
her  doleful  mood. 

"There's  no  comfort  in  men,"  she  said,  "only  trou- 
ble an'  botheration.  An'  what  docs  she  want  with  a 
man  when  she  has  two  childer,  an'  me  with  no  childer 
at  all  but  an  ould  footer  of  a  man,  spittin'  an' 
cursin'  in  the  corner!" 

"That'll  do,  Jane,"  said  Henry  MahafFy.  "I'll 
have  no  more  of  that  talk.  I'm  no  curser,  an'  if 
I  do  spit,  sure  it's  only  natural  to  a  man  that  has 
any  sort  of  a  mouth  on  him  at  all !" 

"It's  not  natural,  Henry  Mahaffy,  but  spreadin' 
disease  it  is,  the  way  you  can  see  for  yourself  on 
the  placards  they  do  be  puttin'  up  on  walls  in  big 
letters  that  the  like  of  you  can  read.  Wasn't  there 
a  man  come  down  special  from  Dublin  with  a  magic 
lantern  to  show  you  what  your  stomach  is  like,  an' 
it  riddled  with  consumption.'"' 

"It  wasn't  a  stomach,"  said  her  husband;  "it  was 
a  lung!" 

"Well,  stomachs  an'  lungs  is  all  one  to  the  like 
of  you,"  Mrs.  Mahaff'y  retorted.  She  turned  to 
Mrs.  Martin :  "What  would  you  do  with  the  like 
of  him  in  the  house,  Martha?" 

"There's  mebbc  worse  nor  Henry  in  the 
world !" 

"Ave,  there  Is,  an'  a  dale  worse,  too  !"  said  Henry 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  75 

Mahaffy  with  fat  emphasis.  "An'  there's  few  is 
better,  though  it's  meself  that  says  it !" 

''Well,  mebbc  that's  true,"  his  wife  exclaimed. 
"God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way  His  wonders  to 
perform.  But  I'd  sooner  have  two  childer  in  the 
liouse  ary  day  nor  an  ould,  spittin',  cursin'  man !" 

"Aren't  you  the  discontented  woman,  Jane  Ma- 
haffy.'"' said  Mrs.  Martin.  "You  would  think  to 
hear  you  it  was  Henry's  fault  you  had  no  childer. 
An'  what's  childer  after  all — only  childer !  Many 
a  night  when  James  was  away  to  sea,  an'  me 
be  my  lone  with  Jamesey  asleep  in  the  cradle, 
I'd  'a'  give  the  world  an'  all  to  have  him  back  again. 
I'd  lie  awake  at  night  an'  hear  nothin'  but  the  wind 
roarin'  round  the  house,  an'  the  sea,  or  mebbe 
a  screechin'  bird  or  the  child  cr^'in'  in  his  cradle. 
Aye,  Jane,  I'd  'a'  been  glad  of  him  lyin'  be- 
side me  if  it  was  only  to  turn  an'  damn  me.  A 
seafarin'  man  has  no  call  to  be  marryin'  a  young 
girl,  an'  be  leavin'  her  by  her  lone,  an'  her  with  a 
child  comin' !" 

"Ah,  sure,  there  has  to  be  sailors,"  said  her 
brother,  "an'  sailors  needs  women  the  same  as  any 
other  man !" 

"You're  mebbe  right,  James !"  replied  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin, "but,  heth,  it's  hard  !" 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  while.  Tlie  wind  had 
risen,  and  it  beat  along  the  road  in  swift  gusts,  and 
shook  the  trees  and  bushes  into  a  mournful  melody. 
They  could  hear  the  waves  making  a  great  charge 
on  the  rocks,  and  the  noise  of  the  collision 
and  the  hiss  of  the  spray  kept  them  quiet 
for  a  longer  time  tiian  was  natural  with  "  Jane 
MahafFy. 


76  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"That's  a  wild  sort  of  a  night  comin'  on !"  said 
Henry. 

Mrs.  Martin  walked  to  the  door  and  looked  out 
into  the  street. 

"It's  beginning  to  rain,  I  think!"  she  said,  hold- 
ing her  hand  out  before  her.  "Aye,  it  is.  It's 
turned  rough,  the  night!" 

"Dear  bless  us,"  moaned  Mrs.  Mahaffy,  "it's  al- 
ways turnin'  rough !" 

Her  husband  took  out  his  pipe,  and  began  to  fill 
it.  "It  would  be  quare,"  he  said,  as  he  lit  the  pipe, 
"if  it  wasn't  James  at  all,  but  another  man  lettin' 
on  to  be  him !" 

"Ah,  quit  talkin',  Henry,  an'  be  dacent!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  MahafFy. 

"Ah,  now,"  he  continued,  "you  have  to  be  quaren 
careful.  I  heard  tell  once  of  a  woman  lost  her 
man  as  it  was  thought,  an'  three  men,  one  after 
the  other,  turned  up,  an'  said  they  v/ere  him,  an' 
weren't  drowned  at  all.  It  was  the  bit  of  money 
her  aunt  left  her  that  they  had  their  hearts  set  on, 
an'  they  started  fightin'  one  another  about  her.  She 
had  to  send  for  the  peelers  before  she  could  get  redd 
of  them.  She  was  that  upset  an'  vexed  about  it  that 
when  her  man  did  come  back,  she  gave  him  in  charge, 
thinkin'  mebbe  it  was  another  one  lettin'  on.  She 
couldn't  bear  to  have  him  next  or  near  her,  an'  she 
went  into  a  decline !" 

"It's  a  quare  thing  to  think  of  three  men  fightin' 
for  one  woman,  where  there's  many  a  woman  in 
the  world  can't  get  one  man.  Look  at  Esther,  now ! 
She's  never  married !"  his  wife  exclaimed. 

"Mebbe,  she  doesn't  want  to  be !"  said  Mrs. 
Martin. 


MRS.  :MAIiTIX'S  MAN  77 

Mrs.  Mahaffy  snorted  contemptuously.  There 
was    no    love    lost   between   her    and   Esther. 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  make  her  an  oifer  an'  not 
mean  it,  if  I  was  a  man,"  she  said. 

"Now,  don't  be  goin'  on  about  Esther,  Jane," 
said  her  husband,  "for  you'll  only  work  yourself 
into  a  rage  if  you  do  that.  What'll  Jane  be  doin' 
when  he  comes  home,  Martha.?"  he  asked  of  his 
sister. 

Mrs.  Martin  had  not  thought  of  that.  She  had 
been  so  possessed  by  the  idea  that  he  was  return- 
ing to  her  that  she  had  not  considered  anything 
else.  She  did  not  care  what  he  did.  He  could  idle 
his  time  away  if  he  chose  to  do  so,  and,  sure,  after 
all  the  hard  times  he  must  have  had,  it  would  be 
poor  enough  reward  to  let  him  sit  still  in  peace  and 
happiness  for  th_  rest  of  his  life.  The  shop  was 
prosperous  enough  to  maintain  him  as  comfortably 
as  the  rest  of  them  without  any  necessity  for  him 
to  do  a  hand'.s  turn. 

"Ah,  but,  you  can't  have  a  man  lyin'  about  the 
house  doin'  nothin'  all  day,"  said  Henry  MahafFy 
sapiently.  "He'd  be  away  in  the  mind  in  no  time 
at  all!" 

"Indeed  then,"  exclaimed  his  wife,  "men's  not  so 
easy  driv'  out  of  their  minds  as  all  that,  or 
there's     plenty     in     this     town     would     be     ravin' 


mad !" 


The  door  opened  as  she  spoke,  and  Esther  en- 
tered quickly.  A  gust  of  wind  blew  in  with  her,  and 
sent  a  spurt  of  flame  up  tlic  glass-chimney  of  the 
oil-lamp,  and  caused  the  pictures  on  the  wall 
to    rattle    perilously.      She    ynished    the   door   to    as 


78  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

soon  as  she  could,  but  had  difficulty  iu  closing  it 
immediately  because  of  the  force  of  the  storm. 

"Has  he  come  yet.'"'  she  said. 

Her  eyes  were  brighter  than  they  had  been  earlier 
in  the  evening ;  so  bright  were  they,  indeed,  that  they 
seemed  to  have  a  feverish  glow.  She  spoke  her 
words  jerkily,  and  when  she  had  uttered  them,  she 
moistened  her  lips  with  her  tongue.  She  was  stand- 
ing in  the  shadow  by  the  door,  and  the  others  could 
not  see  that  her  breasts  were  rising  and  falling 
rapidly  like  a  rough  sea. 

"Not  yet,  Esther,"  replied  Mrs.  Martin.  "Henry 
an'  Jane's  here !" 

Esther  nodded  her  head  and  then  walked  toward 
the  dresser  where  she  laid  her  hat,  "Aye,  I  see!" 
she  said.  "How're  you,  Henry?"  She  ignored  her 
sister-in-law. 

"I'm  bravely,  thank  you,  Esther,"  Henry  an- 
swered.   "An'  how  is  yourself.''" 

"Middlin' !"  she  said,  dragging  a  chair  toward  the 
fire.  Mrs.  Martin  took  hold  of  her  as  she  came  near. 
"Esther,  woman,"  she  exclaimed,  "you're  wringin' 
wet !" 

"The  rain  come  on  so  sudden!  It's  not  so  bad, 
Martha,  an'  I'll  dry  by  the  fire.    ..." 

"Hcth,  an'  you'll  not  then,  Esther.  You'll  go 
upstairs  to  your  room  this  minute  an'  change  every 
stitch  you  have  on  you.  I'll  not  have  you  catchin' 
your  death  of  cold !" 

She  gently  pushed  Estlier  toward  the  stairs,  and 
Esther  willessly  went.  She  had  reached  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  was  about  to  mount  them  when  Jane 
MahafFy,  folding  her  hands  more  closely  and  tight- 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  iNIAX  79 

ening  her  lips  still  more,  turned  to  her,  and  said, 
"I  have  health,  too,  Esther  MahafFy !" 

"Have  you?"  answered  Esther  indifferently. 

"Aye,  I  have.  I  tliought  you  didn't  know,  for 
3'ou  never  asked  after  it  as  any  decent  person 
would !" 

Esther  mounted  a  step.  "You're  sure  to  be  all 
right,"  she  said. 

"It's  good  manners  to  ask  if  a  person's  well  even 
if  you  hope  they're  not !"  Mrs.  Mahaff'y  ex- 
claimed. 

Mrs.  Martin  waved  her  hand  at  Jane  MahafFy. 
"Now,  now,  Jane,"  she  said,  "don't  be  put  out. 
Sure,  Esther  hasn't  an  unkind  thought  in  her  head 
about  you.     You  know  that  rightly !" 

"I  know  nothin'  of  tlie  sort!    ..." 

Esther  had  stopped  on  the  stairs  to  listen,  and 
was  leaning  over  the  banisters  looking  down  on  her 
angry  sister-in-law. 

"Jane,  woman,"  said  Henry  MahafFy,  "You're  be- 
side yourself  altogether.  It'll  not  be  much  of  a 
welcome  for  James  if  he  comes  in  an'  finds  us  all 
wranglin'  together!" 

"It'll  mind  him  of  ould  times,"  Esther  said  sarcas- 
tically as  she  turned  to  go  on  up  the  stairs. 

But  she  did  not  go  far.  Jane  MahafFy  let  the 
wells  of  bitterness  in  her  heart  overflow.  "I  hope," 
she  said,  with  malice  and  all  uncharitablencss  in  her 
voice,  "I  hope  you'll  give  him  no  call  to  be  mindin' 
ould  times.  Miss  Esther!" 

Esther  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  then  she 
came  quickly  down  the  stairs  into  the  room 
again. 


80  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"What  were  you  sayin',  Jane  MahafFj?"  she 
said. 

"That'll  do,  Esther,"  Mrs.  Martin  interrupted. 
"That'll  do,  do  you  hear?  Jane,  you  needn't  say  no 
more !" 

"You're  too  soft,  Martha,"  replied  Mrs.  MahafFy. 
"That's  what  you  are.  Sure,  wasn't  it  the  talk 
of  Ballyreagh,  the  way  them  two  were  goin' 
on!" 

Esther  turned  on  her  passionately.  "It  was  you 
made  the  talk !"  she  exclaimed. 

"There  was  no  call  for  anyone  to  make  any  talk ! 
The  pair  of  you  was  busy  makin'  it  yourselves. 
Didn't  Martha  catch  you  huggin'  one  another  be- 
hind the  door  one  night,  an'  didn't  Henry  walk  into 
the  pair  of  you  in  the  dark  up  at  the  Moat.    .    .    ." 

"There's  no  need  to  be  draggin'  all  that  up 
again,"  Mrs.  Martin  pleaded. 

"I  hope  not,  indeed !" 

It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Martin  that  Esther,  in  her 
anger,  was  about  to  strike  Mrs.  Mahaffy.  She  rose 
and  caught  hold  of  her  sister's  arm.  "Quieten  your- 
self, Esther !"  she  said  soothingly ;  but  Esther  shook 
herself  free,  and  stood  over  Mrs.  MahafFy  in  a  wild 
way. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Jane  Mahafty.'"'  she  shouted 
at  her.  "Are  you  makin'  me  out  a  bad  woman  or 
what.?" 

"You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean,"  Mrs.  Ma- 
haffy replied. 

"What  are  you  insinuatin'  against  me?" 

"I'm  not  insinuatin'  nothin'.  If  you  had  bad  in 
your  mind,  it  wasn't  me  that  put  it  there !" 

She  began  to  be  afraid  of  Esther,  and  in  her  fear 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  M\N  81 

she  tried  to  make  her  voice  gentler.  "Far  be  it 
from  me,"  she  said,  "to  utter  any  bad  about  any- 
one. Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged:  That's 
God's  word,  an'  I  always  try  to  act  on  God's  word 
wherever  I  am !" 

Esther's  temper  cooled  almost  as  suddenly  as  it 
warmed,  and  she  went  to  the  seat  in  the  window  and 
sat  down. 

"I'm  not  heedin'  you  at  all,  Jane  MahafFy !"  she 
said.  "Sure,  every  one  knows  rightly  what  makes 
your  tongue  so  bitter.  A  woman  that  can't  have 
a  child!    ..." 

The  rage  that  had  consumed  Esther  for  a  moment 
or  two  was  a  poor,  pale  thing  to  the  rage  that  de- 
voured Mrs.  MahafFy  when  she  heard  this  taunt. 
She  stood  up  and  clenched  her  fists,  and  her  lips 
moved  in  a  frenzy  so  that  little  flecks  of  foani 
gathered  in  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  could 
not  speak  for  a  while.  Then  the  rage  in  her  broke, 
and  she  ran  across  the  floor  to  Esther,  and  shook 
her  fist  in  her  face. 

"How  dare  you  make  a  mock  of  me.'"'  she  shouted. 
"How  dare  you  taunt  me  to  my  face,  you  whore 
you!    .    .    ."' 

There  was  a  long  sob  in  Esther's  voice.  She 
stood  up  and  faced  the  angry  woman,  and  it  seemed 
for  a  time  that  one  of  them  must  die ;  but  the  hurt 
that  each  had  done  to  the  otJier  was  so  great  that 
neither  of  them  spoke.  They  stood  thus,  staring 
at  each  other,  until  Henry  Mahaffy,  in  a  fright, 
caught  hold  of  his  wife's  arm,  and  pulled  her  away 
from  Esther. 

"That's  no  way  to  be  goin'  on  I"  he  said,  pushing 
her  back  into  her  chair. 


82  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"She  made  little  of  me !"  ,slie  mumbled. 

"'Well,  you  shouldn't  'a'  called  her  out  of  her 
name.  ..."  He  turned  to  Esther.  "Think 
shame  of  yourself,  Esther,  to  be  tauntin'  her  with 
what  can't  be  helped.  You  could  help  what  you 
done.     You  were  young  and  thoughtless  !    .    .    . " 

Esther  swept  her  hair  back  from  her  brow,  and 
then  stood  with  her  back  to  her  brother.  "I  want 
none  of  your  sermons,  Henry!"  she  said. 

"You're  a  headstrong  woman,  Esther,  an'  you'll 
come  to  harm  by  it.  You'd  only  be  doin'  right  if 
you  were  to  beg  Jane's  pardon  for  what  you  said 
to  her!" 

"I'll  beg  none  of  licr  pardon !"  said  Esther. 

Mrs.  MahafFy's  rage  had  unnerved  her.  She  be- 
gan to  crjs  and  when  she  had  dabbed  her  eyes  with 
her  handkerchief  she  turned  to  Esther  and  said, 
"May  God  forgive  3^ou  on  the  Judgment  Day,  Esther 
Mahaffy,  for  I'll  not !" 

"Nobody  wants  your  forgiveness!    ..." 

The  old  woman  sat  sniveling  in  her  chair,  and  her 
fingers  crumpled  her  handkerchief.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin's mind  went  back  to  a  similar  scene  that  had  been 
enacted  almost  on  that  very  spot.  She  saw  the 
gnarled  and  broken  form  of  Mrs.  Crothers,  huddled 
before  the  fire,  with  a  clove  in  her  gums,  and  a  hand- 
kerchief in  her  hands.    .    .    . 

"Don't  do  that,  Jane !"  she  said  gently,  as  she 
stayed  the  moving  fingers.  "Be  dryin'  your  eyes, 
Jane,  an'  don't  pay  no  heed  to  wliat  was  said.  Sure, 
we're  all  upset  by  James  comin'  home  again,  an' 
disturbed  in  our  minds.  We'll  all  be  pleasant  to- 
gether in  a  wee  while,  an'  not  be  sayin'  angry  words 
to  one  another  again !" 


MRS.  :\1ART1N'S  :\rAN  8S 

She  became  conscious  of  the  fact  that  her  brother 
was  rebuking  Esther. 

"Martha's  forgive  you,  Esther,"  he  was  saying, 
'"but  all  the  same  3'ou  done  wrong,  an'  I  hope  for 
all  our  sakes ,  you'll  not  be  doin'  it  again.  I'm 
oulder  nor  you  are  by  a  good  wee  bit,  an'  I'm  the 
head  of  your  family,  so  it's  my  duty  to  talk  to  you 
this  way,  though  God  knows  I  don't  like  doin'  it. 
When  you  know  as  much  about  the  world  as  I  do, 
you'll  know  it's  not  right  nor  customary  to  go 
about  kissin'  an'  huggin'  your  sister's  man.  It's 
bad  enough  to  be  huggin'  an'  kissin'  another  per- 
son's man,  but  your  own  sister's.  .  .  .  It's  not 
decent,  so  it's  not !" 

She  got  up  and  intervened  between  them,  for  she 
was  afraid  that  Esther  would  be  enraged  again. 

"Wheesht,  Henry,  can't  you,  an'  leave  her  alone. 
She  was  only  a  slip  of  a  girl  when  she  done 
that,"  she  said.  "Go  on  upstairs,  Esther,  an' 
change  your  clothes,  or  you'll  be  catchin'  your 
death." 

She  put  her  arms  about  her  sister,  and  moved 
across  the  floor  to  the  stairs  with  her ;  and  when 
they  had  reached  the  foot  of  them,  she  patted 
Esther  caressingly  on  the  shoulder,  "Don't  be  hcedin' 
them !"  she  whispered. 

Esther  looked  at  her  qucerly  for  a  moment,  and 
then  she  put  her  arms  round  her  neck,  and  kissed 
her  passionately,  and  then  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs, 
with  the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes. 

"That's  the  wild  woman  !"  said  Henry  MahafFy, 
striking  a  match  to  light  his  pipe. 

"She's  the  devil's  mate!"  said  his  wife. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

Mrs.  Martin  went  back  to  her  seat  at  the  fire, 
and  began  to  poke  the  embers.  "It's  a  wild 
night,"  she  said,  throwing  pieces  of  turf  on  to  the 
fire. 

"Aye,"  her  brother  repHed,  "it's  turned  out 
rough !  Them  people  down  for  the  day  from  Bei- 
fast'll  be  dreepin'  with  the  wet.  What  do  you  say, 
Jane.?" 

Jane  had  not  spoken.     She  had  sobbed. 

"Will  I  make  you  a  drop  of  tay,  the  both  of  you.'"' 
said  Mrs.  Martin,  "or  will  you  Avait  for  a  bit  of 
supper  with  the  childer  when  they  come  in?  Dear 
only  knows  what's  keepin'  them.  They  ought  to  'a' 
been  here  long  ago !" 

"A  wee  drop  of  tay  would  do  no  harm  at  all !" 
said  Henry.  "I'm  thinkin'  your  man'll  not  be  here 
the  night,  Martha!" 

"Mebbe  not,  Henry !     Wheesht !" 

She  stood  listening  for  a  moment.  She  could  hear 
a  voice  outside,  and  the  footsteps  of  some  one  com- 
ing toward  the  door. 

"What  is  it.?"  asked  Henry. 

"It's   some   one.    ..." 

Mrs.  Mahaffy  forgot  her  woes,  and  putting  her 
handkerchief  hastily  awaj',  began  to  sit  rigidly  again 
in  her  chair. 

84 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  85 

"God  save  us,"  she  said,  "I  feel  in  the  quare  state 
now  he's  comin' !" 

''Who's  comin'?"  snapped  her  husband- 

"It's  James,  isn't  it  ?  Mebbe,  anyway !  Do  you 
think  he'll  know  me,  Henry?" 

"Och,  how  do  I  know?"  replied  her  husband  in 
a  surl}'  tone.  "I  suppose  now,  you'll  be  rollin' 
your  eyes  at  him,  the  same's  the  rest.  He'll  lie 
bringin'  some  trouble  with  him  as  sure  as  you're 
livin' !" 

Mrs.  Martin  put  up  her  hand.  "It's  the  childer," 
she  said,  "I  know  their  step!" 

The  door  opened,  and  Jamesey  and  Aggie  en- 
tered. 

"Is  my  da  here  yet?"  said  Jamesey,  flinging  his 
cap  carelessly  into  the  window-seat  as  he  had  done 
before. 

"Not  yet,  dear !" 

Aggie  went  to  her  mother,  and  caressed  her. 
"Och,  ma,"  she  said,  "aren't  you  tiic  quare  one  not 
to  tell  me  what  was  on  your  mind.  I'm  just  dyin' 
to  see  him.  It's  strange  to  have  a  da  livin'  an'  you 
never  set  your  eyes  on   him  !" 

"Aye,  it's  quare,  indeed  !"  said  her  Uncle  Henry. 

Jamesey  and  Aggie  were  late  in  coming  home  be- 
cause he  had  thought  of  going  to  the  station  to  wait 
for  the  trains  coming  in  from  Belfast.  "But  he 
never  come,"  he  concluded.  "Of  course,  we  mightn't 
'a'  knowed  him!" 

"Ah,  wouldn't  you  know  your  own  da  the  minute 
you  saw  him,  an'  you  lookin'  for  him,"  exclaimed 
Aggie.  "I've  never  seen  him,  but  I'd  know  him  any- 
where.     Isn't  his   photo   in    the   album?" 

Mrs.    Martin   put   her   arms    round   the   girl   and 


86  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

kissed  licr,  and  Aggie  snuggled  up  into  her  mother's 
clasp. 

"He  went  away  before  she  was  born,"  she  said. 
"I  was  here  by  myself,  an'  no  man  to  keep  me  com- 
pany, an'  her  the  hard  child  to  get  born.  A  woman 
that  has  her  man  at  sea  has  a  great  deal  to 
bear." 

"Aye,  an'  then  him  to  go  an'  get  lost  the  way  he 
done !"  muttered  Jamesey. 

"I  wonder  will  he  bring  anything  with  him,  pres- 
ents an'  things  !"  said  Aggie. 

"It'll  be  enough  if  he  brings  himself,"  replied  her 
mother. 

Jane  MahafFy  laughed.  "//  he  brings  himself," 
she  said.  "By  the  look  of  things  that's  just  what 
he's  not  goin'  to  do." 

"Don't  be  sayin'  that,  Jane!"  said  Mrs.  Martin. 
"I  don't  like  to  hear  you  makin'  fun  of  it.    ..." 

Aggie  glanced  angrily  at  her  aunt.  "I  Avonder 
you  have  the  heart  to  talk  that  way,  Aunt  Jane !" 
she  said.  "My  da  writ  an'  said  he  was  comin', 
didn't  he,  an'  what  would  he  do  that  for  if  he  didn't 
want  to  come.?" 

Henry  MahafFy  suddenly  slapped  his  knee,  and 
said,  "Boys-a-boys"  several  times. 

"What  ails  you,  Henry.'"'  his  wife  demanded. 

"I've  just  thought  of  a  fearful  thing,"  he  replied. 
He  turned  to  Mrs.  Martin  and  gazed  at  her  intently 
for  a  few  moments. 

"You've  thought  of  what.'"'  his  wife  said,  jogging 
his  arm. 

"Man  alive,"  he  said  in  a  slow  voice,  as  if  his 
thoughts  were  overpowering  him,  "supposin'  you'd 
married  again,  Martha  !    .    .    . " 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  8T 

Jamesey  turned  away  in  disgust.  "Ah,  for  dear 
sake,  Uncle  Henry !"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Martin  smiled  at  her  brother.  She  was  ac- 
customed to  his  fearful  thoughts,  and  they  left  her 
unmoved. 

"Aye,"  she  replied,  "that  would  have  been  a  trou- 
ble to  us  all,  but  I  wasn't  one  for  marryin'  twice !" 
She  turned  to  Aggie,  and  drew  the  girl  to 
her.  "Would  you  'a'  liked  a  step-father,  Aggie?" 
she  said. 

"Och,  ma!    .    .    ." 

"Sure,  what  differs  would  it  'a'  made  to  her.'"' 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Mahaff'y.  "She  never  saw  her  own 
da,  an'  a  step-da  might  'a'  done  her  as  well  as  a  da 
that  she  never  knew  nothin'  about!" 

"Aye,  there's  somethin'  in  that,  Jane!"  her  hus- 
band said. 

Aggie  frowned  at  her  uncle  and  aunt,  and  ex- 
claimed petulantly,  "I  wouldn't  have  a  step-da  for 
no  money !" 

"Ah,  now,"  said  her  uncle,  "there's  many  is  worse 
nor  step-das.  I  knew  a  man  once  was  made  misera- 
ble by  his  step-childer  expectin'  him  to  be  cruel  til 
them,  an'  him  wouldn't  lift  his  finger  to  a  fly.  It 
took  them  a  quare  long  time  to  find  out  the  decent 
man  he  was,  an'  then  they  liked  him  better  nor  they 
liked  their  own  da!" 

"Och,  indeed,  you  know,  that  often  happens,"  his 
wife  remarked.  She  glanced  at  the  mantel-shelf. 
"Dear  save  us,"  she  exclaimed,  "it's  gettin'  quaren 
late.  That  man  of  yours'll  never  be  here  the 
night,  Martha!"  She  turned  to  her  husband. 
"We'd  better  be  goin',  Henry,  before  it  gets  any 
later !" 


88  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"You'd  better  stay  an'  have  your  supper  here," 
said  Mrs.  Martin.  "You  were  sayin'  a  wee  while 
ago  you  would  like  a  drop  of  tay,  an'  now  we're 
all  here,  we  might  as  well  have  it  as  not !" 

Jamesey  asked  where  his  aunt  Esther  was,  and 
as  he  spoke,  she  came  down  the  stairs  wearing  dry 
clothes. 

"Here  I  am,  Jamesey!"  she  said,  coming  roto  the 
kitchen. 

"Come  on  up  to  the  fire  here,"  he  called  to  her, 
getting  up  from  his  chair  and  holding  it  forward 
for  her.  "We're  just  goin'  to  have  our  supper. 
Man,  dear,  do  you  hear  that  storm.''" 

Esther  did  not  take  the  chair  which  he  offered 
to  her.  She  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and 
as  she  did  so  the  wind  blew  in  and  almost  caused 
the  oil-lamp  to  explode. 

"Woman-a-dear !"  shouted  Henry  Mahaffy,  "mind 
what  you're  doin'  or  you'll  set  the  house  alight  on 
us  afore  ever  we  know  where  we  are !" 

Esther  hurriedly  shut  the  door,  and  came  to  the 
fire.     "It's  rainin'  bucketsful !"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Martin  prepared  the  supper,  and  presently 
they  sat  down  to  the  meal.  There  was  some  con- 
straint among  them,  for  Esther  and  Jane  Mahaffy 
still  felt  some  of  the  anger  they  had  displayed 
earlier  in  the  evening,  and  Henry  Mahaffy  was 
not  free  from  its  influence.  Jamesey  and  Aggie 
chattered,  but  they  found  that  the  others  answered 
them  with  a  "Yes"  or  a  "No"  or  "You're  mebbe 
right !"  or  "Aye,  dear-a-dear,  that's  true !"  and  in 
a  little  while  they  too  became  silent.  They  ate 
the  food,  and  now  and  then  Mrs.  Martin  would  put 
out  her  hand  for  a  cup,  and  say,  "You'll  have  some 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  89 

more  tay,  will  you  not?"  and  the  cup  would  be 
handed  to  her  with,  "Thank  you,  I  will  have  a  wee 
drop !"  and  then  silence  would  fall  again. 

Esther  sat  nervously  at  the  table,  breaking  a 
piece  of  soda-farl  into  crumbs,  and  now  and  then 
sipping  some  of  her  tea.  There  were  wild  thoughts 
in  Esther's  mind,  and  treacherous  thoughts, 
too. 

She  was  thinking  to  herself,  "He's  coming  back! 
He's  coming  back!"  just  as  she  had  thought  when 
she  had  been  upstairs  changing  from  her  wet  gar- 
ments into  dry  ones.  She  had  wailed  for  him  all 
these  years.  She  could  admit  that  now  to  herself. 
All  the  time  that  she  had  been  living  with  Martha 
there  had  been  in  her  heart,  securely  hidden,  a  de- 
sire for  James  Martin's  love  again.  Her  thoughts 
flew  about  her  mind  like  a  ball  that  is  beaten  back- 
ward and  forward  continually.  One  moment  she  was 
saying  to  herself  that  she  could  never  hurt  IMartha 
again,  that  she  must  go  away  and  never  return  to 
Ballyreagh,  and  another  moment  she  was  saying  that 
she  would  stay  on  and  be  indifferent  to  Martha's 
feelings.  He  was  not  Martha's  man,  really.  He 
was  her  man.  Martha  had  Imagined  that  he  was 
dead,  and  had  seldom  spoken  of  him  all  the  time 
tliat  lie  was  away,  but  she  had  kept  him  con- 
stantly in  her  memory,  and  often  in  the  night  she 
had  lain  awake,  wondering  whether  he  was  alive  or 
dead. 

His  picture  came  into  her  mind  easily.  She  saw 
him  as  a  strong,  rough  man,  with  arms  that  could 
crush  you  and  lips  that  pressed  fiercely  on  yours. 
She  remembered  how  she  had  lain  in  his  arms  in  the 
dark  nights  in  fields  and  on  a  hillside,  with  the  wind 


90  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

blowing  warmly  about  them,  and  the  sound  of  the 
sea  coming  to  them  softly  from  the  distant  shore. 
There  was  the  time  when  Henry  MahafFy  had  passed 
them  while  the}-  lay  together  at  the  Moat,  and  they 
had  buried  their  faces  together  so  that  he  should 
not  see  them.  .  .  .  She  could  almost  feel  James's 
beard  against  her  cheeks  now.  .  .  .  Henry  had 
seen  them,  but  they  had  sworn  that  he  Avas  mis- 
taken— and  Martha  had  sworn,  too,  that  James 
had  not  been  outside  the  house  all  that  evening. 
It  was  a  strange  thing  for  Martha  to  do,  but  then 
Martha  was  more  proud  than  any  other  MahafFy. 
Poor  Martha !    .    .    . 

'"Will  you  have  a  wee  drop  more  tay,  Esther?" 
Martha  said  to  her  across  the  table. 

She  came  out  of  her  reverie  with  a  start.  Martha 
was  saying  something  to  her.  .  .  .  Then  she  un- 
derstood, and  she  smiled  at  her  sister,  and  said,  "No 
thank  you,  Martha.     I've  done!" 

Her  thoughts  of  James  came  back  into  her  mind. 
She  was  conscious  of  the  babble  of  talk  that  began 
to  circulate  again,  and  she  heard  Martha  asking 
Henry  to  have  some  more  tea,  and  saw  him  wav- 
ing his  hands  in  refusal.  What  fat  hands  Henry 
had !  James's  hands  were  not  fat.  .  .  .  Henry 
was  saying,  "Ah,  now,  I've  done  rightly !"  but 
Martha  would  not  heed  him.  It  was  odd  that  Mar- 
tha should  seem  so  calm  when  at  any  moment 
James  might  step  up  to  the  door  and  enter  the 
house.  She  did  not  appear  to  be  concerned  at  all. 
.  .  .  Oh,  God,  would  he  never  come !  Why 
couldn't  they  all  get  up  from  the  table.?  Why  did 
Martha  press  them  to  eat.?  .  .  .  She  was  urging 
Henry  now  to  eat  more,  although  he  had  waved  his 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  91 

fat  hands  and  wiped  his  beard  and  asserted  that  he 
had  done  rightly. 

"Come  on  now,"  she  was  saying,  and  laugh- 
ing as  she  said  it.  "an'  don't  be  lettin'  on  to  bo 
polite,  for  sure  I  know  well  it's  not  two  cups  nor 
yet  three  would  satisfy  you,  Henry.  Is  it, 
Jane?" 

Then  Jane  answered,  "Och,  indeed  you're  right, 
Martha !     He's  the  great  boy  for  tay !    .    .    . " 

Why  couldn't  Henry  and  Jane  go  home?  James 
had  never  liked  them.  What  was  Martha  thinking 
of  in  having  them  there  for  his  homecoming?  .  .  . 
Would  James  think  she  had  failed  on  it?  Martha 
had  said  she  was  not  so  nice-looking  as  she  had 
been,  and  upstairs  just  now  she  had  examined  her 
face  in  the  mirror.  She  was  older  ...  of  course, 
she  was  older  .  .  .  but  she  had  not  failed  a  great 
deal.  Martha  might  only  be  saying  that  to  vex  her, 
not  that  it  was  like  Martha  to  say  things  without 
meaning  them.  ...  It  was  wicked  of  her  to  be 
thinking  bad  things  about  James,  the  way  she  was 
when  Martha  had  been  so  good  to  her.  Martha  had 
been  good  to  her.  There  was  not  another  woman 
in  the  world  like  Martha,  so  patient,  so  gentle  and 
kind.  .  .  .  Oh,  now,  she  must  not  think  of  James 
again  .  .  .  only!  .  .  .  She  must  go  away.  That 
was  all !    .    .    . 

Henry  had  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded  to  take 
another  cup  of  tea,  and  he  was  passing  his  cup  to 
Martha. 

"Sure,  tay's  the  national  drink  of  Ireland,"  he 
was  saying,  "an'  isn't  It  better  to  be  drinkin'  tay 
nor  to  be  drinkin'  beer  the  way  they  do  over  in 
Knglan' !" 


93  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

He  always  had  some  excuse  for  his  greediness.  He 
would  eat  you  out  of  hearth  and  home.    .    .    . 

"Sure,  they  drink  beer  an'  porter  every  day  over 
there  with  their  dinner.  Women,  too !  They 
think  nothin'  over  in  that  country  of  a  woman 
drinkin'  her  glass  of  porter  every  day,  an'  the  whole 
of  the  people  lookin'  at  her  doin'  it.  You  wouldn't 
think  that  was  a  God-fearin'  Christian  country, 
would  you.'"' 

Of  course,  if  she  were  to  go  away.  ...  It  would 
be  hard  to  go  away  just  when  he  has  returned  to 
them  all.  She  had  lived  a  long  while  now  in  this 
house  with  Martha.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  could  stay 
on,  and  just  be  friendly  to  James.  Perhaps  she 
could  do  that.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
not  behave  like  a  sister.  .  .  .  But  if  he  were  to 
ask  her.  .  .  .  And  surely  he  would  want  her 
again.  He  loved  her  when  he  went  away.  It  was 
strange  that  he  had  not  said  "Good-by"  to  her 
before  he  went  off  on  that  voyage,  and  that  he  had 
not  looked  up  to  the  window  of  her  room  to  see  if 
she  were  waving  to  him  .  .  .  but  perhaps  he  had 
had  something  on  his  mind.  .  .  .  Jane  Mahaff'y 
was  talking  now.  What  was  she  saying.^  Oh,  some- 
tliing  in  reply  to  Henry.  Something  about  tlie 
English.    .    .    . 

"Ah,  well,  God  help  them,"  she  was  saying,  "sure 
everybody  knows  what  the  English  is  like.  They 
can't  talk  their  own  language  at  all.  There's 
not  a  one  among  them  can  say  the  letter  aitch. 
That's  the  truth  I'm  tcllin'  you.  Do  you  mind  thon 
coastguard  over  at  Groomsport,  Henry  .f^  Thon  man 
come  from  London  oi'  somewhere  like  that,  an'  he 
couldn't  talk  at  all.     I  mind  well  the  way  the  fel- 


MRS.  xu.^kTIN'S  man  93 

lows  an'  girls  used  to  get  him  down  on  the  shore, 
an'  try  an'  make  him  say  'horse.'  But  could  he 
say  it.?  Not  without  near  chokin'  himself.  ' 'Orse,' 
he  would  say,  '  'orse !'  An'  wlien  we  told  him  to 
say  'horse,'  he  had  to  give  a  gulp  an'  near  swally 
himself,  an'  then  he  couldn't  say  it  proper.  He 
used  to  call  thon  woman  Aggie  McKeown,  Haggle! 
She'd  'a'  married  him  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
that !" 

Always  making  fun  of  some  one,  Jane  Mahaffy. 
God  had  no  right  to  give  any  woman  the  bitter 
tongue  he  gave  her.    .    .    . 

The  conversation  passed  round  and  round,  and 
her  thoughts  were  so  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  it 
that  she  could  no  longer  keep  them  together.  She 
got  up  from  the  table  and  walked  over  to  the  seat 
in  the  window.    .    .    . 

"Well,  if  that's  what  drinkin'  porter  does  for 
you,"  Henry  said  as  he  got  up,  "we're  better  with- 
out it  in  this  place !" 

"Ah,  now,"  retorted  Martha ;  "there's  no  harm  in 
a  drop  of  porter!" 

If  he  were  out  in  that  rain  and  wind,  Esther 
thought  to  herself,  he  would  be  cut  to   the  bone. 

"You're  riglit  there!"  said  Mrs.  MahafFy  to  Mar- 
tha, "porter's  not  like  tay  that  does  be  turnin'  your 
inside  the  like  of  leather  the  same  as  the  man  showed 
us  on  the  limelight  views !" 

It  was  not  far  from  the  station  to  the  house,  and 
mebbe  he  would  be  wearing  a  good  coat.  The  sea 
would  be  rolling  up  the  wall,  and  driving  the  boats 
into  the  harbor  behind  the  breakwater.  .  .  . 
Jamesey  got  up  from  the  table  and  came  and  sat 
beside  her. 


94  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"What  are  you  tliinkin',  Aunt  Estlicr?"  he  said. 

She  ran  her  fingers  through  his  hair  .  .  .  just 
hke  his  da's  hair.    ... 

"I'm  thinkin'  it's  a  wild  night  for  a  man  to  be 
out,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Aye,  it  is.  Are  you  glad  my  da's  coniin'  home. 
Aunt  Esther.?" 

"Aye,  son  dear  !    .    .    . " 

There  was  a  thump  on  the  door  and  then  another. 

The  talk  stopped  instantly,  and  they  sat  listening. 

The  knock  came  again ;  and  Esther  started  to  her 
feet. 

"It's  mebbe  my  da!"  said  Jamesey. 

"Will  I  open  the  door,  Martha?"  said  Esther. 

Mrs.  Martin  stood  up  tremulously  and  pushed  her 
chair  away. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I'll  do  it !" 

She  walked  swiftly  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Mind  the  lamp,"  she  said  as  she  did  so. 

A  dark  bearded  man,  rough  of  aspect  and  surly 
of  manner,  stood  outside.  He  looked  dirty,  and  his 
clothes  were  old  and  torn.  The  wind  almost  blew 
her  over  as  she  stood  there  holding  the  door,  but 
she  still  stood  gazing  at  him.  He  looked  at  her 
uncertainly. 

"Is  that  you,  James.'"'  she  said. 

"Aye,  it  is,"  the  man  replied. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  as  she  did  so 
the  wind  dashed  the  door  out  of  her  grip,  and  caused 
it  to  bang  against  the  wall.  The  flame  in  the  lamp 
gave  a  great  lurch.    .    .    . 

"Come  on  in,"  she  said,  drawing  him  into  the 
kitchen,  and  shutting  the  door.  "You  must  be  in 
need  of  your  tay  !" 


CHAPTER    IX 

Esther  stood  In  the  shadow  of  the  window-seat  and 
gazed  at  him.  She  clutched  at  the  curtains  with  one 
hand,  wliilc  with  the  other  she  nervously  caught  at 
her  skirt.  She  stood  thus  while  he  slouched  suspi- 
ciously into  the  center  of  the  kitchen.  The  light  of 
the  lamp  da/zled  him  for  a  few  moments  and  his 
eyes  blinked  as  ho  peered  about  him.  He  held  a 
cloth  cap  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  twisting  it  as  if 
he  were  a  culprit  detected  in  a  crime  by  one  who 
is  his  social  superior.  His  hair  was  long  and  untidy, 
und  some  of  its  strands  hung  over  his  forehead 
almost  to  his  eyebrows.  He  had  the  look  of  a  man 
who  has  not  washed  himself  for  many  days,  and 
there  was  something  sly  in  his  manner  that  repelled 
her.  The  man  who  had  been  her  lover  had  walked 
alertly  and  had  held  his  head  high ;  Jiis  look  had 
been  quick  and  keen,  and  his  words  came  out  of  his 
mouth  like  the  rattle  of  a  gun ;  but  this  man.  .  .  . 
Her  lips  trembled  and  her  eyes  filled  witii 
tears.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  said, 
"Oh,  James !» 

There  was  a  sulky  scowl  on  his  face  as  he  glanced 
at  her,  and  it  went  through  her  mind  suddenly 
that  if  the  man  she  had  h)ved  had  scowled,  his 
scowl  would  have  been  that  of  a  strong  man,  not 
that  of  a  feckless  fellow  who  sulks  rather  than  rages. 

95 


96  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

He  did  not  take  her  hand,  but  turned  toward 
the  table  and  sat  down  heavily  in  one  of  the 
chairs. 

"What  are  you  Oh,  Jamesin'  about .?"  he  said, 
and  then  they  were  certain  that  he  was  who  he  said 
he  was,  for  that  had  been  a  retort  he  had  often 
made  before.  He  spoke  to  his  wife.  "Give  us  some- 
thin'  to  ate  for  the  love  of  God!"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  haven't  had  a  bite  the  day,  an'  I'm  near 
famished !" 

"You've  not  had !    .    .    ." 

She  did  not  say  any  more,  but  hurried  to  the 
table,  and  began  to  pour  out  tea  for  him.  The 
others  stood  in  silence  and  watched  him  as  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  the  cup  from  her. 

"Here,"  she  said  quietly,  "take  that!  There's 
plenty  for  you !" 

He  drank  tea  at  one  gulp,  and  then  passed  the 
cup  for  more,  and  while  it  was  being  filled,  he  seized 
a  piece  of  bread  and  began  to  eat  it  like  a  hungry 
animal.  He  swallowed  great  lumps  of  the  loaf 
almost  whole,  and  drank  his  tea  with  a  long,  loud, 
sucking  sound.  There  was  something  strange  and 
inhuman  about  him,  something  starved  and  rave- 
nous and  brutal  and  like  a  wild  beast.  It  was  as 
if  a  dog  that  had  known  a  comfortable  home  had 
been  astray  for  a  long  time  and  had  lost  the  sense 
of  discipline  and  had  become  a  fierce  and  desperate 
cur.  His  conduct  alarmed  his  family  as  they  stood 
silently  looking  at  him;  and  some  movement 
among  them  caused  him  to  glance  up  at  them 
sharply. 

"What  are  you  all  gapin'  at.'"'  he  shouted  at  them 
angrily. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  97 

"They're  all  glad  to  see  you  back  again,  James," 
Mrs.  Martin  said  to  him. 

He  disregarded  her  statement,  and  turned  away 
from  his  audience.  "Gimme  some  more  to  ate !"  he 
demanded. 

Jamesey  went  over  to  his  father's  side,  and  took 
his  hand.  "I'm  right  an'  glad  to  see  you,  da!"  he 
said  eagerly. 

His  father  pushed  him  roughly  aside.  "What  the 
hell's  the  matter  with  you  all.^"  he  said,  filling  his 
mouth  with  a  soda-farl. 

The  boy  fell  back  to  the  group  at  the  end  of  the 
room.  He  had  made  an  angry  movement  toward 
his  father  when  he  heard  him  speak  in  that  way,  but 
his  mother  touched  him  on  the  arm,  and  his  anger 
subsided. 

"He's  tired,  can't  you  sec,  an'  starvin' !  Don't 
be  sayin'  a  word  to  iiim  any  of  you  til  he's  had  his 
food  an'  a  rest.  You  look  tired,  James,"  she  said, 
turning  to  her  husband. 

He  mumbled  thickly,  for  his  mouth  was  full  of 
food. 

"Well,  just  go  on  atin'  til  you're  satisfied,"  she 
continued,  "an'  no  one'll  bother  you  at  all  til  you've 
done !"  She  put  more  food  on  his  plate,  and  filled 
his  cup,  and  when  she  had  done  that  she  moved 
toward  the  others.  "Sit  down  the  whole  of  yous," 
she  said,  "for  dear  sake!  Esther,  come  over  here  to 
the  fire!" 

Her  husband  looked  up  from  his  food  as  she  spoke. 

"Is  that  Esther.'"'  he  said,  pointing  to  her. 

There  was  some  hardness  in  Mrs.  Martin's  voice 
when  she  answered  his  question.  He  had  not  asked 
after  anyone  else. 


98  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Aye,  it  is !"  she  replied. 

"She's  quarely  changed,"  he  said,  glancing  at 
Esther  casually,  and  then  he  turned  again  to  his 
plate.  "I  didn't  know  her  at  first.''  he  continued. 
"I  thought  mebbe  it  was  you  or  Jane  MahafFy!" 

Mrs.  MahafFy  sat  up  in  her  chair  and  stiffened. 
"Indeed,  then,  an'  you'd  little  call  to  be  mistakin' 
lier  for  me,  James  Martin,  if  it's  James  Martin  yovi 

He  laughed  at  her.  "You're  right  there,  Jane," 
he  said.  "You  are  in  sang.  You're  skinnier  nor 
she  is,  an'  3'ou  always  were !"  He  looked  again  at 
Esther.  "All  the  same,  Esther,  you're  failed  on  it. 
I  mind  rightly  the  time  you  were  a  fine-lookin' 
woman  that  a  man  could  take  a  bit  of  pleasure  out 
of,  but  there's  not  much  in  you  now  by  the  look 
of  you,  I'm  thinkin' !" 

Esther  did  not  answer.  She  stood  with  her  head 
leaning  against  the  mantelshelf  as  if  she  were  musing 
over  the  fire.  She  did  not  appear  to  be  perturbed, 
nor  did  she  make  any  answer  to  James  Martin's 
remarks,  but  in  her  mind  some  jeering  thing  con- 
tinually said,  "An'  that's  the  man  you  waited  for! 
An'  that's  the  man  you  waited  for !" 

"Are  you  married  yet.'"'  he  said  to  her,  turning 
away  from  the  table. 

She  did  not  reply  immediately,  and  Jane  Mahaffy 
thought  that  she  had  not  heard.  She  pulled 
Esther's  skirt,  and  said,  "He's  speakin'  to  you!" 

"No,  I'm  not,"  Esther  answered. 

He  turned  indifferently  from  her.  "Well,  you'll 
need  to  hurry  up  if  you  want  a  man,"  he  said,  fum- 
bling in  his  pockets,  "for  you're  not  gettin'  no 
vounger,  an'  you're   not  gettin'   nicer-lookin'  on  it. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  99 

Has  any  of  you  got  a  cigarette  or  a  pipe  of  tobacco 
or  anything?    I'm  dyin'  for  a  smoke!" 

Henry  MahafFy  passed  his  pouch  to  him,  and  he 
began  to  fill  the  pipe  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket. 

"I'm  often  sayin'  that  to  her,''  declared  Jane  Ma- 
haffy.  "It's  time  you  were  married  an'  settled  down, 
I  tell  her,  but  dear  bless  you,  she  doesn't  pay  a  bit 
of  heed  to  me.     Do  you,  Esther.'"' 

"No,"  Esther  replied,  as  she  walked  away  from 
the  fire.  She  went  and  sat  down  close  to  Jamesey, 
but  she  did  not  look  at  him  or  speak  to  him.  She 
had  been  calm  as  she  stood  at  the  fire,  but  her  spirit 
was  breaking.  She  felt  tluit  .she  must  sit  in  the 
shadow  somewhere  and  cry,  but  she  could  not  bear 
to  cry  in  the  presence  of  James  Martin  or  of  Jane 
Mahaffy.  While  she  sat  upright  in  her  chair  as  if 
she  were  afraid  to  relax  her  body,  Jamesey 
slipped  his  hand  into  hers.  "I  love  you,  Aunt 
Esther,'*  he  whispered,  and  then  she  could  bear  no 
more. 

"I'm  not  feelip'  very  well,  Martha!"  she  said.  "I'll 
go  upstairs  an'  lie  down  a  wee  while !" 

Martha  looked  at  her,  and  nodded  her  head,  "Aye, 
do,  Esther!"  she  answered. 

"You're  never  sick,  are  you,  Esther.'"'  exclaimed 
Jane  Mahaffy. 

"Be  quiet,  Jane !"  said  Mrs.  Martin.  "You  have 
too  much  talk  altogether!" 

"Good-night,  Aunt  Esther !"  said  Jamesey.  "Will 
I  come  an'  light  the  candle  for  you?" 

"No  thank  you,  Jamesey  son,"  Esther  replied. 
"I'll  do  it  myself.  Good-night,  Jamese3\  Good- 
night to  you  all !" 

She   walked   up   the   stairs,   and   then    they   iieard 


100  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

the    noise    of    her    bedroom    door    as    it    slammed 
to. 

"Have  you  finished  your  supper,  James?"  Mrs. 
Martin  asked  of  her  husband.  He  wagged  his  head. 
"Then  I'll  clear  the  table  away,  an'  we  can  all  sit 
roun'  the  fire.  Jamesey,  son,  lend  me  a  hand  with 
the  table,  vnll  you?" 

"Aye,  ma !" 

The  table  was  pushed  back  into  its  place,  and 
Mrs.  Martin  and  her  son  cleared  the  dishes  from  it. 
James  Martin  pulled  his  chair  closer  to  the  fire,  and 
sat  for  a  few  moments  drawing  smoke  from  his 
pipe,  and  puffing  it  in  thick  clouds  from  his 
mouth. 

"Well,  Henry,"  he  said  to  his  brother-in-law, 
"you're  fatter  on  it  nor  you  were  when  I  last  saw 
you !"  His  eye  fell  on  Aggie  as  he  spoke.  "Is  that 
your  daughter?"  he  said. 

Aggie  burst  out  laughing.  "No,  da,  I'm  not!" 
she  said,  and  then  could  say  no  more,  so  tickled  was 
she  by  her  father's  mistake. 

He  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  gazed  at 
her  in  astonishment.  He  half  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  then  sat  down  again. 

"Da,  did  you  call  me?"  he  said. 

"Aye,  indeed  I  did,"  answered  Aggie. 

He  turned  to  Mrs.  Martin.  "Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  I've  got  a  daughter  as   well  as  a  son?"  ho 

said. 

Mrs.  Martin  nodded.  "She  was  born  a  wee  while 
after  you  went  away,"  she  replied. 

Aggie  smiled  at  him,  and  said,  "I'm  a  wee  bit  of  a 
surprise  for  you,  amn't  I,  da?" 

"An'  the  fine  wee  girl  she  is,  too!"  Henry  MaliafFy 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  101 

exclaimed,  patting  her  on  the  back,  "the  way  she 
helps  her  ma  in  the  shop!" 

"What  shop?"  said  Martin. 

"Her  shop,"  answered  Henry  Mahaffy,  pointing 
to  his  sister.  "She's  started  a  delph-shop  after 
you  went  away  .  .  .  an'  that  just  reminds  me, 
mebbe  you'll  tell  us  where  you've  been  all  this 
time !" 

James  Martin  did  not  respond  to  his  brother-in- 
law's  invitation  to  relate  the  story  of  his  adven- 
tures. He  sat  still  in  his  chair  for  a  few  moments, 
looking  at  his  daughter  as  if  he  could  not  take  his 
eyes  off  her.  Tlien  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her, 
and  when  she  had  taken  it,  he  drew  her  toward  him. 
"Come  here,  daughter,"  he  said,  "til  I  talk  to 
you !" 

"You  weren't  expectin'  the  like  of  me,  were  you, 
da.'"'  said  Aggie,  as  she  sat  down  on  his  knee,  and 
leaned  against  his  shoulder. 

"I  was  not,  indeed!"  He  put  his  arm  round  her 
and  hugged  her  tightly,  and  then  drew  her  face 
down  to  his  and  kissed  her. 

"It's  the  quare  thing,"  he  said,  "for  me  to  be 
havin'  a  handsome  girl  for  a  daughter,  an'  me  not 
knowin'  nothin'  about  it.  You're  the  quare  fine- 
lookin'  wee  girl,  Aggie !" 

Aggie  laughed  joyfully.  "I'm  glad  you  like  me, 
da !"  she  exclaimed. 

Mrs.  Martin  came  and  sat  down  beside  them. 
"Now,  don't  be  fillin'  her  head  with  conceit,"  she 
said,  "for  sure  she's  got  enough  of  that  already!" 

He  disregarded  what  she  said.  "It's  the  rare 
woman  you'll  make,"  he  said  to  Aggie,  pressing  his 
face   against   hers.      "Boys-a-boys,   but   you've    got 


102  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

the  quare,  soft  hair!"  He  turned  to  his  wife. 
"She's  better  lookin'  nor  ever  Esther  was  at  her 
age !" 

"Am  I,  da.?"  said  Aggie.  "My  Aunt  Esther  was 
quare  an'  nice-lookin'  when  she  was  young!" 

"Aye,  an'  she's  nice-lookin'  still,"  Jamesey 
added. 

"You're  nicer  lookin'  nor  her,  Aggie !"  said  James 
Martin. 

He  kissed  Aggie,  and  then  put  her  from  him. 

"You're  the  right  wee  girl,"  he  said,  rising  and 
stretching  himself,  "Holy  Jases,"  he  said,  "isn't  it 
fine  to  be  under  a  good  roof  again.  Do  you  hear 
that  wind  out  there?" 

They  listened  to  the  storm,  which  had  not  abated. 

"Many  a  time  I  was  out  in  the  like  of  that,"  he 
continued. 

"Da !"  Aggie  exclaimed  miserably. 

"Aye,  man3^'s  the  time,"  he  added. 

They  did  not  speak,  for  they  thought  that  he 
would  now  tell  them  of  his  adventures  and  the  cause 
of  his  absence  from  home ;  but  he  did  not  do  so. 
He  gaped  about  him  sleepily,  and  then  said  to  his 
wife,  "Where  am  I  to  sleep  the  night.'"' 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  bedroom  that  led  off 
the  kitchen.  "You'll  find  all  you  want  in  there!" 
she  said. 

"Aye,"  he  said,  and  yawned.  "Well,  I'll  not  be 
keepin'  you  up  any  longer,  Henry  and  Jane!  It's 
a  wild  night,  an'  you'll  be  wantin'  to  get  to  your 
bed,  an'  it's  where  I'm  wantin'  to  go  myself,  the 
tired  I  am.'" 

Henry  Mahaffy  made  a  gesture  of  dissent.  "Ah, 
sure,   we're   in   no   hurry,"   he  said.      "It's    Sunday 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  103 

the  morrow,  an'  we've  no  work  to  get  up  to.  Just 
sit  down  quietly  now,  an'  tell  us  a  bit  about  3^our- 
self,  an'  all  you've  been  doin'  this  long  while.  Sure. 
we  all  thought  you  were  drowned  or  somethin'. 
There  was  a  story  went  about  that  you  were  lost 
at  sea !" 

"Aye,  Uncle  Henry,"  exclaimed  Jamescy  mali- 
ciously, "an'  there  was  another  story  went  about 
that  he  was  captured  by  cannibals  an'  kept  a  pris- 
oner in  the  heart  of  Africa,  an'  it  was  your  own 
self  put  it  about.  Da,"  he  added,  turning  to  his 
father,  "he  writ  to  the  ould  Queen  about  you.  He 
did  in  sang!" 

Henry  Mahaff'y  flushed,  and  moved  uncomfortably 
in  his  chair.  "Now,  noM-,  Jamesey,"  he  said,  "don't 
go  an'  be  rakin'  all  that  up  again!" 

"He  M'anted  iier  to  send  a  man-o'-war  to  rescue 
you  from  the  darkies.  Aye,  da,  he  did  in  sang.  It 
was  the  quare  cod,  that !" 

"Well,  sure,  he  might  have  been  captured  by 
them,"  said  Henry  MahafFy,  "just  as  easy  as  be 
drowned.  There's  plenty  of  people  does  be  captured 
by  them!" 

James  Martin  turned  toward  the  room  in  wiiich 
he  was  to  sleep.  "I'm  too  tired  to  talk  the  night," 
he  said,  as  he  went  into  the  room,  and  shut  the  door 
behind  hiin. 

Henry  Mahaffy  was  too  astonished  to  say  any- 
thing for  a  while.  Then  he  got  up  from  his  seat, 
and  put  on  his  hat. 

"Come  on,  Jane,  woman !"  he  said,  shortly,  and 
his  wife  rose  too  and  prepared  for  the  street.  "I 
hope,"  he  continued,  addressing  himself  to  Martha, 
"you'll  liJive  joy  in  your  man's  return,  Martha,  but 


104^  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

I  must  sa.y  he's  not  so  civil  in  his  manner  as  he 
might  be!" 

"Aye,  that's  true,  Henry,"  his  wife  added.  "It's 
a  quarc  thing  for  a  man  to  walk  into  a  house  that 
he's  not  put  his  foot  in  for  sixteen  years,  an'  then 
him  to  walk  off  to  his  bed  without  a  word  of  expla- 
nation to  his  friends.  It's  not  like  the  thing,  so 
it's  not.  It's  enough  to  make  any  person  think  bad 
things  of  him !" 

Mrs.  Martin  helped  her  sister-in-law  into  her 
jacket.  "Now,  Jane,  don't  you  know  rightly  that  a 
tired  man  does  not  like  to  be  talkin',  an'  couldn't 
you  see  that  James  was  wore  out.  God  knows  what 
trouble  he's  had  to  bear!    ..." 

"It's  awful,"  interrupted  Aggie,  "to  think  of  him 
out  in  the  storais  the  way  he  said  he  was !" 

"Well,  what  call  had  he  to  be  out  in  the  storms 
when  his  home  was  here.^"  said  Jamesey,  screwing 
his  face  in  the  way  of  a  man  who  is  puzzled. 

"Aye,  that's  an  important  question,  Jamesey !" 
said  Henry  Mahaffy,  getting  ready  to  go  out. 
"That's  a  very  important  question.  What  was 
he  doin'  all  these  years.'*  We've  a  right  to  know, 
the  whole  of  us."  He  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke, 
and  his  wife  passed  out  into  the  rain  and  wind. 
He  stood  holding  it  open,  heedless  of  the  gale  that 
blew  in.  "I'll  be  round  again  the  morrow's  morn 
to  hear  what  he  has  to  say  for  himself.  Good-night 
to  you  all!" 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  the  quiet  in 
the  kitchen,  which  had  been  disturbed  by  the  inrush 
of  storm,  was  restored. 

Jamesey  and  Aggie  sat  in  opposite  corners  of  the 
fire.    The  turf  was  burning  down,  and  the  red  embers 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  105 

were  turning  to  gray  ashes.  A  thin  film  of  light 
jumped  in  and  out  of  a  corner  of  the  fire,  send- 
ing a  long,  jumpy  shadow  round  the  room.  Now 
and  then  rain-drops  fell  down  the  chimney  on  to 
the  hot  turf,  and  made  a  little  sizzling  sound  for  a 
moment. 

"Well,  childer,"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  "your  da's 
home  again !" 

"Aye,"  said  Jamesey  shortly. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  him,  son.'"' 

"Aye,  I'm  glad  enough.  I  didn't  like  the  way  he 
spoke  to  my  Aunt  Esther,  an'  he  didn't  hardly  take 
any  notice  of  me  at  all.  He's  a  quare  sort  of  a 
man!    ..." 

"I'm  glad  he's  back !"  Aggie  interrupted.  "He 
took  a  fancy  to  me  the  minute  he  clapped  his  eyes 
on  me.     Didn't  he,  ma.'"' 

Mrs.  Martin  smiled  at  her  daughter,  and  stroked 
her  cheek.  "He  did,  daughter,"  she  said,  "an'  why 
wouldn't  he,  an'  him  your  da !" 

"I  wonder  where  he  was  all  this  time,"  said 
Jamesey,  as  he  took  off  his  boots.  He  had  drawn 
the  lace  of  one  of  them  and  was  about  to  take  the 
boot  off  his  foot,  when  his  mind  suddenly  filled  with 
suspicion.  "Ma !"  he  demanded,  "do  you  know 
where  he  was.''" 

"No,  son,  I  don't  no  more  than  the  dead !" 

"I  wonder  .  .  .  Ma,  did  he  run  away  from 
you.'*" 

Aggie  bent  over  and  struck  him  on  the  hand. 
"You  shouldn't  speak  that  way  of  your  da, 
Jamesey,"  she  said.  "As  if  my  da  would  do  such 
an  a  thing!" 

He  shook  off'  his  boots,  and  then  put  on  a  pair 


106  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

of  carpet  slippers.  "It's  brave  an'  early  yet," 
he  said.  "I'll  put  a  bit  more  turf  on  the  fire, 
ma!" 

"Aye,  son,  do." 

'•He's  not  what  I  thought  he'd  be  like!"  he  said, 
as  he  flung  a  piece  of  turf  on  the  fire. 

"What  did  you  think  he'd  be  like,  son?" 

"Ah,  different !  Not  like  what  he  is.  He  doesn't 
look  like  a  man  would  be  married  to  you.  .  .  .1 
don't  know  how  to  say  it,  ma  ...  he  looks  like  a 
man  Malkin'  the  roads !" 

"I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  talkin'  that  way, 
Jamesey,"  exclaimed  Aggie  angrily.  "He's  a  quare 
nice  da,  that's  what  he  is,  an'  I  do  believe  you're 
put  out  because  h^  didn't  take  as  much  notice  of 
you  as  he  did  of  me." 

"Ah,  for  dear  sake!"  said  Jamesey  in  con- 
tempt. 

"Wheesht,  child-a-dear,"  Mrs.  Martin  said. 
"Don't  be  talkin'  too  loud  or  you'll  disturb  his 
sleep !" 

The  turf  burned  up  brightly,  and  gave  out  the 
faint  beautiful  smell  that  clings  about  the  houses 
where  turf  is  burnt.  Mrs.  Martin  drew  her  children 
closer  to  her,  and  they  all  sat  in  the  red  glow  in 
silence.  The  window  rattled  in  the  rain  and  wind, 
but  the  noise  did  not  disturb  them :  they  were  so 
secure  inside  that  the  storm  only  served  to  make 
them  feel  more  peaceful. 

"It's  a  wild  night  for  sailors,"  said  eJamesey. 

"Aye,"  said  Mrs.  Martin. 

"I'm  glad  m}^  da's  in  his  bed  an'  not  in  a  boat," 
said  Aggie. 

While    they    sat    there,    they    became    aware    of 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  107 

footsteps  overhead.  Jamesey  sat  up  stiffly,  and 
listened. 

"That  must  be  my  Aunt  Esther,"  he  said.  "I 
thouglit  she  went  to  her  bed  long  ago!" 

"She  went  on  quarely  when  my  da  spoke  to  her," 
Aggie  murmured  without  raising  herself  from  her 
position  against  her  mother's  side. 

"I  think  I'll  go  up  to  her  for  a  wee  minute,"  said 
Mrs.  Martin,  "she'll  mebbe  be  wantin'  me!" 

She  made  Aggie  move,  and  the  girl  resented  hav- 
ing to  do  so. 

"Och,  sure,  she  doesn't  need  you,"  she  said 
crossly. 

"Mebbe,  she  does,  daughter,  an'  sure  if  she  doesn't 
I  can  come  down  again.  You  an'  Jamesey  can  sit 
here  an'  talk  a  while  about  your  da!" 

She  M'ent  upstairs  and  entered  the  room  where 
Esther  was. 


CHAPTER    X 

When  Esther  had  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  room, 
she  had  done  so  to  escape  from  the  presence  of 
the  others.  She  was  not  tired  or  sleepy.  She 
was  disturbed  in  her  mind.  The  jeering  thing 
still  mocked  her  with  its  exultant,  "An'  that's 
the  man  you  waited  for!  An'  that's  the  man 
you  waited  for !"  She  had  seen  the  astonishment 
with  which  the  others  had  watched  James  raven- 
ously consume  his  food,  and  had  heard  Henry 
MahafFy  murmur,  "Dear-a-dear !"  and  "Boys-a- 
boys !"  and  make  a  clucking  sound  with  his 
tongue  against  his  palate,  and  had  felt,  too,  that 
Aggie  was  rejoicing  in  her  father,  while  Jamesey 
was  full  of  wonder;  but  these  things  were  like 
flashes  of  thought  across  one  big  thought.  He 
had  ignored  her.  He  had  treated  her  in  a  rough 
way,  and  had  spoken  slightingly  of  her.  He 
had  told  her  that  she  must  hurry  up  and  get  a 
man  before  it  was  too  late.  .  .  .  "An'  that's  the 
man  you  waited  for!"  said  the  jeering  thing. 
She  had  let  bad  thoughts  come  into  her  mind 
when  she  had  heard  that  he  was  returning  to  his 
home,  and  had  allowed  herself  to  imagine  him 
holding  her  in  his  arms  .  .  .  she  had  determined 
to  act  shamefully  to  Martha  if  James  wanted  her, 
and  it  had  never  entered  her  mind   that  he  would 

108 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  109 

not  want  her.  She  saw  now  quite  clearly  that 
all  the  time  that  James  was  away  she  had  had 
thoughts  that  were  treacherous  to  Martha.  She 
had  lived  on  in  the  hope  that  he  would  return, 
and  she  should  again  be  his  lover  and  lie  in  his 
arms  in  warm,  grassy  places  where  they  could 
hear  the  sound  of  the  sea  mingling  with  the  sound 
of  the  wind.  Even  now,  she  felt  that  her  remorse 
was  not  remorse  at  all,  that  it  was  born  of  wounded 
desire,  that  there  would  not  have  been  any  re- 
morse had  James  taken  her  to  him  as  she  had 
hoped  he  would.  The  love  she  had  for  Jamesey 
was  a  reflection  of  the  love  she  had  had  for  his 
father.    .    .    . 

That  was  the  bitter  thing  that  she  had  to  know 
of  herself,  and  well  was  she  repaid  for  her  badness, 
she  told  herself,  when  her  mind  had  been  lit  up  and 
she  had  learned  the  truth.  He  had  returned,  and 
he  did  not  care  for  her.  He  had  returned  like  a 
tramp  off  the  roads,  a  rag  of  a  man,  a  blurred 
picture  of  himself,  but  although  he  was  not  to  be 
compared  with  the  man  who  had  gone  away 
sixteen  years  earlier,  he  treated  her  as  if  she  were 
dirt.  That  was  it.  Dirt  beneath  his  feet !  Had 
she  met  such  a  man  on  the  road,  she  would  have 
passed  him  by  without  a  word  of  greeting;  yet  this 
man  had  no  regard  for  her,  though  she  had  wasted 
her  life  in  regard  for  him. 

She  was  sitting  at  the  window  when  Martha  came 
into  the  room.  She  leaned  against  the  sill,  and  her 
head  rested  on  the  palm  of  her  hand  so  that  Martha 
could  just  see  her  face. 

"Is  that  you,  Martha?"  she  said,  as  Mrs.  Martin 
came  across   the  floor  to  her. 


110  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Aye,  Esther,"  Mrs.  IMartin  replied.  "I  just 
come  up  to  see  how  you  were !" 

"I'm  rightly,  thank  you !  It's  a  terrible  wild 
night !" 

"Aye !" 

"I  wouldn't  wonder  but  a  ship  would  be  wrecked 
the  night!" 

"Ah,  God  help  all  out  there !" 

She  sat  down  beside  her  sister,  and  they  both 
looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  sea,  which  was  a 
big  dark  shape  that  frequently  broke  up  into 
little  white  rifts  far  out,  and  great,  roaring  white 
waves  near  to.  There  was  no  moon  in  the  sky,  and 
the  stars  had  hidden  themselves  in  the  folds  of 
the  clouds.  Boats  went  by  Avith  shaky  lights,  and 
sometimes  a  horn  hooted.  A  white  light  shone 
from  the  lighthouse,  and  caught  the  Copeland 
Islands  in  its  glow.  The  dark  mass  of  sky  and  sea 
was  sometimes  lit  by  a  revolving  light  from  the 
lighthouse  at  Black  Head,  and  further  away 
a  flash  came  at  intervals  from  the  other  side  of  the 
Irish  Sea. 

"God  be  good  to  any  poor  woman  has  her  man 
out  there  the  night,"  said  Mrs.  Martin. 

She  looked  at  Esther,  and  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
hard  and  dry,  but  that  now  and  then  her  eyelids 
closed  quickly  and  remained  shut  for  a  moment  or 
two  as  if  she  were  trying  to  keep  her  tears  in.  And 
while  she  looked  at  her,  a  tear  escaped  from  its 
prison,  and  trembled  on  her  lashes  and  then  it  fell 
on  to  the  hand  that  lay  in  her  lap.  She  bent  for- 
ward and  took  Esther's  hand,  and  held  it  firmly 
in  hers,  but  she  did  not  speak.  A  lost  bird  cried 
out  as  it  flew  past   tlie  housf,   and   then   the  wind, 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  111 

gathering  itself  up  like  a  runner  who  sees  the  goal 
a  little  way  off*,  flung  itself  in  a  great  rage  on  the 
land,  and  the  sea  rose  to  the  heiglit  of  a  hill  and 
made  a  terrible  shout  as  it  fell  over  on  the  rocks, 
and  roared  through  the  seaweed  and  smashed  itself 
finally  on  the  sea-wall.  A  sick  cow  moaned  plain- 
tively in  its  byre  near  at  hand,  and  a  frightened  dog 
barked  miserably. 

"You  better  come  to  bed,  Esther,"  said  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin, trying  to  draw  her  sister  from  the  window. 

Then  Esther  cried.  Her  eyes  brimmed  over, 
and  her  lips  trembled.  A  moan  came  from  her, 
and  the  tears  tumbled  down  her  cheeks  like 
rain. 

"Poor  Esther,"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  drawing  her 
into  her  arms,  and  fondling  her. 

They  stood  there  in  the  darkness,  and  Esther 
sobbed  until  it  seemed  tliat  she  must  die  of  sobbing; 
and  Mrs.  Martin  clapped  her  shoulder,  and  mur- 
mured some  comforting  thing  to  her. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  cry,"  Esther  said  when  she  had 
recovered  from  the  violence  of  her  grief,  "but  I 
couldn't  help  it." 

Mrs.  Martin  rubbed  her  face  against  Esther's 
hair,  and  murmured,  "I  know,  dear,  I  know!" 

"He's  .  .   .  he's  that  diff'erent,"  Esther  continued. 

"He  is  changed,  isn't  he.'"' 

"Aye.  He's  not  like  the  same  man.  I  couldn't 
'a'  believed  It  If  I  hadn't  seen  liim  with  my  own  eyes. 
An'  he's  that  hard.  You  heard  the  way  he  spoke 
to  me?" 

"He  was  always  hard,  Ivsihcr !" 

"An'  maklri'  little  of  me  afore  Henry  an'  Jane. 
She    was    riglit    an'    ])lcased    to    hear    him    at    it. 


112  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

Eggin'  him  on,  she  was.  .  .  .  An'  then  comparin' 
me  with  Aggie!" 

"You  see,  it's  young  ones  he  Hkes,  Esther !" 

"I'm  not  that  ould,  am  1?  Martha,  am  I  failed 
on  it?  It's  not  right  to  be  askin'  you,  but  am  I 
altered  the  way  he  says  I  am  .^" 

Mrs.  Martin  took  hold  of  her  sister's  face,  and 
held  it  as  if  she  were  examining  it  critically. 
"You're  not  like  what  you  were,  Esther!"  she 
said. 

"But  amn't  I  nice-lookin'  still,  the  way  I  was  one 
time.?" 

"You're  not  bad.   .   .   ." 

But  Esther  would  not  be  consoled.  "Then  I  am 
failed  on  it,"  she  exclaimed  bitterly.  "It's  true  what 
he  says,  that  I'm  ould  an'  ugly!" 

"You're  not  ugly,  Esther,  but.   .   .   ." 

"I  was  a  quare  nice  lookin'  girl  one  time, 
Martha !" 

"You  were,  Esther.  You  were,  indeed !  But  sure 
we  all  get  on  in  years.  You  had  your  time  of  lookin' 
nice.     I  never  had  any  time !" 

"He  married  you  for  all  that.  An'  you're  nice 
enough  lookin'   now.      He   said   that   himself.   .   .   ." 

"Don't  be  botherin'  your  head  about  him, 
Esther !" 

"I  don't  want  to  bother  my  head  about  him," 
Esther  replied,  "but  it's  not  nice  to  sit  there  an' 
hear  him  makin'  little  of  me,  an'  callin'  me 
ould.  .  .  ."  She  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then 
speaking  more  rapidly,  went  on.  "Martha,"  she  con- 
tinued, "I've  got  a  quare  feelin'  about  him.  I  don't 
hardly  know  how  to  tell  you,  but  it's  like  as  if  I'd 
been  expectin'  some  one  a  long  time,  an'   a  knock 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  INFAN  113 

come  to  the  door,  an'  I  thought  it  was  hira,  but  when 
I  opened  the  door  it  was  some  one  else.  That's  the 
way  I  feel,  an'  I'm  heartsore  feelin'  it!" 

For  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Martin  felt  a  quick, 
hard  anger.  Esther  was  confessing  that  she  had 
imagined  James  returning  as  her  lover,  had, 
indeed  been  living  in  the  hope  that  some  day  he 
would  so  return,  and  she  was  confessing  her 
disappointment  that  he  had  returned  indifferent 
to  her.  It  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  miserably  mean 
thing  to  have  nursed  this  hope  in  her  heart  all  these 
sixteen  years  when  its  realization  must  mean 
renewed  sorrow  for  her  sister ;  but  some  great 
knowledgeable  thing  in  her  made  her  realize 
the  piteousness  of  her  sister's  position,  and  perhaps 
the  fact  that  Esther's  desires  had  been  blasted 
helped  her  to  forgive  the  treachery  that  had  been 
intended. 

"There's  many  a  woman,"  she  said  quietly, 
"has  to  endure  what  you're  endurin',  an'  many  a 
man,  too!  It's  a  pity  to  fill  your  mind  with  one 
thing,  Esther.  As  likely  as  not  it'll  fail  you  in  the 
end.  James  is  not  as  young  as  he  was,  any  more 
nor  you  are,  an'  it  maj'  be  his  heart's  changed. 
Did  you  see  the  pleasure  he  had  in  Aggie  when  he 
heard  she  was  his  daughter.?  It  was  a  quare  look 
was  on  his  face  when  she  went  over  til  him  an'  called 
him  'da'.  Mebbe  he'll  be  settlin'  down  now,  an' 
livin'  quiet  an'  dacent,  an'  thinking  of  his  childer 
growin'  up  to  be  a  comfort  to  liiin  when  he's  an 
ould  crippled  man,  mebbe !  Sure,  that's  natural, 
Esther.  He's  been  wanderin'  the  world,  an'  he's 
likely  tired,  an'  just  wants  to  sit  down  an'  rest  him- 
self!" 


114  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Mebbe  so!" 

"It  wasn't  kind  of  mc,  Esther,  to  be  thinkin'  about 
him  the  way  jou  were  all  that  time !" 

"No,  it  wasn't!" 

"An'  3'ou  with  the  memories  you  had  of  things 
you  done  to  me.  It's  a  mercy  to  God  there  wasn't 
a  bastard  to  be  rearin'  for  him!" 

"You're  mebbe  right." 

"Surely  I'm  right,  amn't  I.'*" 

"I  don't  know.  I'd  'a'  been  bavin'  something,  an' 
now  I  have  nothin'!" 

"There's  that  of  course.   .   .   ." 

They  remained  silent  for  some  while,  except  when 
Esther  could  not  prevent  a  sob  from  escaping.  The 
room  was  cold,  and  Mrs.  Martin  felt  chill  in  her 
hands  and  limbs. 

"You'd  better  get  into  your  bed,  Esther!"  she 
said. 

Esther  did  not  make  a  movement.  "Come  on, 
Esther!"  Mrs.  Martin  repeated. 

"I'd  be  better  away,  Martha !"  Esther  replied, 
turning  away  from  her  sister,  "for  I  can't  be  happy 
here  again.  I  could  mebbe  go  up  to  Belfast  an' 
get  work  in  a  ware  room  or  start  a  shop  the  way 
you  did  yourself,  an'  not  be  stoppin'  here  to  be  a 
torment  to  all !" 

"That's  as  you  please,  Esther.  You're  welcome 
here,  an'  well  you  know  it.  There's  no  fear  now 
of  trouble  or  that,  but  mebbe  it'll  hurt  you  to  stay 
here  an'  know  he  doesn't  care  for  you  no  more. 
It  hurt  me  when  I  found  it  out.  ...  I  suppose 
you  never  thought  of  that  .  .  .  but  I'm  well  tholed 
to  it  now,  an'  I  mind  it  no  more  nor  the  wind  in 
my   face   of  a   rough  day.      Tin   knowin'   rightly  he 


MRS.  MxVRTIN'S  MAN  115 

feels  no  more  for  me  nor  a  cat  feels  for  you,  an' 
I'm  not  carin',  Esther.  I  thought  when  I  got  his 
letter  mebbe  I  might  care,  but  when  I  saw  him 
come  in  the  house,  lookin'  like  he  was,  an'  I  minded 
everything,  I  just  didn't  bother  my  head  about  him. 
I'm  glad  enough  to  have  him  back,  an'  for  him  to 
be  sittin'  in  the  dusk,  mebbe,  smokin'  his  pipe  an' 
not  talkin',  an'  me  sittin'  with  him.  You'll  think 
that's  quare,  an'  me  not  carin'  for  him  no  more, 
but  it's  the  way  I  feel.  Many's  a  time  I  was  en- 
vyin'  the  poor  women  comin'  into  the  shop  of  a 
Saturday  night  with  their  men  an'  their  childer, 
an'  them  witii  hardly  no  money  at  all,  but  just  all 
together !  An'  them  thinkin'  me  the  proud  woman 
with  gallons  of  gold  because  I  would  have  little  to  do 
with  them.  Me  envyin'  them  all  the  time !  .  .  .  I'd 
liefer  'a'  been  married  on  a  laborin'  man,  an'  him 
drunk  every  Saturday  night,  nor  be  me  in  my  shop 
with  pounds  saved  in  the  bank,  an'  James  not  at 
home.  Do  you  know  wiiat  I  mean,  Esther.''  Just 
to  feel  you  have  a  man  too !" 

"It's  not  just  wantin'  a  man  I  am,"  Esther  re- 
plied, "for  I  could  'a'  had  plenty.  Jimmy  Murray 
over  at  Millisle  would  'a'  give  the  eyes  out  of  his 
head  for  me.   .   .   ." 

"Aye,  indeed  he  would,  Esther !" 

"But  I  wouldn't  liave  him,  an'  Andra  Mont- 
gomery had  a  fancy  for  me  one  time,  but  I  didn't 
fancy  liim.  I  only  fancied  one  man,  an'  it  didn't 
matter  to  me  what  sort  of  a  man  he  was,  good 
or  bad,  for  I  loved  him  all  ways  he  was,  an'  done 
whatever  he  wanted  me  to  do,  an'  I  didn't  care 
for  no  one  or  what  they  said,  only  just  to  be  lovin' 
linii    iin'    ]>(•    loved    Ijy    liim.      An'    I    had    that    in    my 


116  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

heart  all  the  time  like  a  big  hunger  or  a  drouth, 
an'  now !  .  .  .  It's  better,  I'm  thinkin',  to  be  hungry 
an'  dry  all  your  life,  nor  to  see  food  an'  drink,  an' 
not  get  it." 

"Or  not  want  it,  Esther !" 

"Aye,  or  not  want  it.  That's  the  way  of  it  then, 
Martha,  an'  you  see,  don't  you,  I  can't  be  stoppin' 
here  no  more?  It'll  never  be  the  same  in  this  house 
again !" 

"That's  true  enough." 

"I'll  mebbe  thinkin'  of  somethin'  in  a  wee  while. 
...  If  I  was  to  start  a  shop  in  Belfast,  the  way 
you  done  here,  Jamesey  could  come  an'  lodge  with 
me.   .   .   .  Will  I  draw  the  blind?" 

Mrs.  Martin  nodded  her  head.  "It'll  keep  the 
sight  of  the  storm  out,"  she  said. 

Esther  drew  the  blind  down,  and  then  went  and 
sat  on  her  bed.  "It's  quare,"  she  said,  "for  me  to 
be  talkin'  this  way  to  you,  an'  me  your  man's  fancy 
woman  one  time !" 

"There's  many  a  quare  thing  in  the  world,  Esther. 
Will  you  not  get  into  your  bed  now?  It's  late,  an' 
you'll  be  tired  out  the  mornin' !" 

"I'm  not  in  the  way  of  sleepin',"  said  Esther. 

Mrs.  Martin  went  over  to  her,  and  unfastened  her 
blouse,  "Well,  go  to  bed  anyway,"  she  said.  "You'll 
be  better  lyin'  there  snug  an'  warm  an'  restin'  your- 
self, nor  to  be  sittin'  up  tirin'  yourself  out,  an' 
you  gettin'  colder  every  minute.  Lift  up  your  arms, 
will  you?" 

She  took  Esther's  blouse  off,  and  unfastened  her 
skirt  so  that  it  slipped  down  about  her  heels.  Then 
she  lit  the  candle,  and  set  it  on  the  wooden  toilet- 
table  in  the  corner,     "I'll  plait  your  hair  for  you 


»» 

) 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  117 

she  said,  "the  way  I  used  to  do  when  you  were  a  wee 
girl !" 

"Ah,  don't  trouble  yourself,  Martha!  .   .   ." 

"Sure,  what  trouble  is  it?  I've  a  fancy  to  do 
it!" 

She  took  the  pins  out  of  her  sisters  hair,  and 
then  shook  the  coils  out  so  that  they  fell  into  a 
dark  mass  on  her  back. 

"You  were  always  proud  of  your  hair,"  she  said, 
as  she  began  to  brush  it,  "but  it  was  never  as  nice 
as  mine,  Esther.  You  excelled  me  in  everything  else 
but  that!" 

Esther  nodded  her  head.  "You  always  had  lovely 
hair,  Martha,"  she  said. 

They  gossiped  trivially  while  Mrs.  Martin  dressed 
her  sister's  hair,  and  then  they  sat  still  for  a  little 
while.  Mrs.  Martin  held  the  brush  in  her  lap,  and 
sat  staring  into  the  candle-light,  and  Esther 
stretched  herself  on  the  bed.  They  did  not  speak, 
though  Esther  wished  to  do  so.  She  put  her  linked 
arms  under  her  head  as  a  pillow  and  raised  herself 
so  that  she  might  look  at  Martha,  and  once  she 
opened  her  lips  to  say  something,  and  then  she  closed 
them  again  without  saying  it.  Mrs.  Martin  shivered 
slightly  and  stood  up. 

"It's  gettin'  quaren  cold  in  here,"  she  said,  putting 
the  hair-brush  down.  "Come  on,  Esther,  and  get 
into  bed !" 

She  unfastened  Esther's  petticoat,  and  took  off 
her  corsets.  "You  would  tliink  you  were  a  child, 
the  way  I'm  goin'  on !"'  she  said,  smiling  as  she 
spoke. 

When  Esther  was  undressed,  and  had  put  on  her 
night  gown,     Mrs.     Martin     pulled     the     brdclothes 


118  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

down  so  that  she  could  get  into  the  bed.  Esther 
climbed  on  to  the  bed,  and  tlicn  suddenly  put  her 
arms  round  her  sister' s  neck,  and  hugged  her 
tightly. 

"I've  been  a  bad  sister  to  you,  Martha,"  she  said, 
"but  I'll  never  be  bad  again.  I  declare  to  God  I 
won't.     I  .   .   ." 

Mrs.  Martin  forced  her  into  the  bed,  and  happed 
the  clothes  about  her.  "Are  j^ou  warm.'^"  she 
said. 

Esther  nodded  her  head. 

"Don't  be  worryin'  about  anythin',  Esther !"  Mrs. 
Martin  said,  bending  over  her,  and  kissing  her. 
"Sleep  well,  dear !     Good-night !" 

"Good-night,  Martha !" 

Mrs.  Martin  took  the  candle,  and  walked  toward 
the  door  of  the  room.  She  had  turned  the  handle 
of  the  door,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when 
Esther  called  to  her  so  quietly  that  she  might  easily 
not  have  been  heard. 

"Martha!"  she  said. 

"Yes,  Esther?" 

"Are — are  you  sleepin'  in  your  own  room  the 
night.?" 

"Yes,  Esther.    Where  else  would  I  sleep?" 

"Aye,  of  course!     Good-night,  Martha!" 

"Good-night,  Esther !" 

She  went  downstairs  and  found  her  son  and  daugh- 
ter still  chattering  by  the  fire. 

"Away  to  your  beds  the  pair  of  you,"  she  said 
playfully.     "Have  you  barred  the  door,  Jamesey?" 

"'No,  ma !   .   .   ."  " 

"Well,  never  mind.  I'll  do  it.  Away  the  pair 
of  you!" 


MRS.  MxVRTIN'S  MAN  119 

She  kissed  Aggie,  and  sent  her  off  to  bed.  Jamc- 
sey  had  started  barring  the  door,  and  securing  the 
house,  and  she  allowed  him  to  finish  doing  so.  While 
he  did  it,  she  sat  down  before  the  fire  and  waited. 
He  came  to  her  side  when  he  had  finished  and  bent 
over  her  and  kissed  her.  She  caught  hold  of 
his  arm,  and  drew  him  down  so  that  he  knelt 
at  her  side.  "Son,  dear,"  she  said,  and  held  him 
close  to  her. 

"Are  you  not  happy,  ma?"  he  asked  when  he 
could  speak  to  her. 

"Ochone,  son,  what  an  a  question  to  be  askin'. 
Haven't  I  got  good  call  to  be  happy  with  you  an' 
Aggie  an'  all !  .   .   ." 

"I  was  mcanin'  about  my  da,  ma !" 

"An'  him  too !  It's  a  quare  woman  wouldn't  be 
glad  to  see  her  man  back  again!  What  put  that 
thought  in  your  head,  Jamesey?" 

"I  don't  know,  ma!  I  can't  understand  him.  .  .  . 
Ma,  did  he  run  away  from  you.'*" 

"Son-a-dear,"  she  said,  putting  him  away  from 
her,  "you're  not  near  yourself  to  be  askin'  the  like 
of  that  question.  Away  to  your  bed,  noAV,  an'  be 
gettin'  U])  early  in  the  mornin' !" 

She  kissed  him  again,  and  he  got  up  from  his  knees 
and  stood  irresolutely  near  her. 

"Away  now,  son!  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  as  if  he  would  suprisc 
her  into  revealing  the  truth,  but  she  returned  his 
look  with  equal  steadiness.  "You  were  a  wee  tory 
when  you  were  a  child,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him, 
"an'  now  you're  a  big  tory  when  you're  a  man. 
Good-night,  son !" 

"Good-night,    ma!"   he    said,    and    went    to   bed. 


120  MRS.  MARTIxN'S  MAN 

She  heard  him  shut  the  door  of  his  room,  but 
she  did  not  move  toward  her  own  room  in  which 
lier  husband  lay.  She  still  sat  before  the  fire,  and 
watched  the  turf  burn  down.  The  gale  continued 
unabated,  but  she  did  not  appear  to  hear  the  waves 
slapping  each  other  with  loud  smacks,  nor  the  wind 
raging  round  the  corners  of  the  cottage.  Once  she 
got  up  from  her  chair  and  went  to  the  door  of 
the  bedroom  and  listened.  She  heard  his  breath 
coming  heavily.  Then  she  returned  to  her  chair,  and 
sat  in  quietness.  The  flame  in  the  fire  had  died 
down,  and  the  glow  was  dying  out.  She  put  her 
foot  on  the  hulk  of  turf,  and  it  crumpled  into  ashes. 
A  cold  air  came  into  the  room  as  it  did  so,  and  she 
shivered  again  as  she  had  shivered  in  Esther's  room. 
She  began  to  feel  very  lonely,  and,  half-affrighted, 
she  glanced  around  the  kitchen,  peering  fearfully 
into  the  shadows.  The  oil-lam.p  flickered,  and 
she  saw  that  the  oil  had  burned  low.  She  turned 
up  the  wick,  but  in  a  few  seconds  the  light 
burned  out  again.  She  waited  for  a  moment  or 
two,  and  then  she  blew  the  light  out,  and  went  to 
bed.   .   .   . 

In  the  night  she  woke,  and  sat  up  in  her  bed. 
She  remembered  quickly  all  that  had  happened  in 
the  daytime,  and  she  turned  to  look  at  the  man 
sleeping  at  her  side.  The  storm  had  subsided,  and 
the  moon  shone  through  the  heavy  clouds  so 
clearly  that  she  could  see  James's  face.  The 
window  was  open,  and  the  wind,  turned  gentle, 
blew  the  lace  curtains  slightly.  She  could  hear 
the  surge  rolling  up  and  breaking  and  then  rolling 
back  again.  She  saw  James  very  plainly.  Her 
eyes  were  open,   and  her  mind  was   free   from  illu- 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  121 

sion.  There  he  lay,  a  shaggy,  rough,  brutal- 
looking  man,  with  a  heavy,  protruding  jaw  that 
weighed  his  lower  lip  down  so  that  his  mouth  was 
open.  He  was  breathing  heavily,  and  now  and 
then  he  gathered  his  breath  into  a  great  snort. 
She  saw  that  his  flesh  was  loose  and  flabby.  His 
night  shirt  was  open  at  the  neck,  displaying  the 
rolls  of  puffy  fat  about  his  throat.  His  nose  had 
thickened  since  she  last  saw  him,  and  the  flesh 
about  his  eyes  was  puckered  and  slack.  He  was  a 
great  gross  thing  that  had  once  been  strong  and 
alert.  There  was  a  bestial  look  about  him.  .  .  . 
She  understood  some  of  Esther's  disappoint- 
ment.  .   .   . 

While  she  sat  up  in  bed  and  watched  him,  he 
snorted  suddenly,  and  then,  shutting  his  mouth 
tightly,  turned  over  on  his  side  away  from  her; 
and  as  he  turned,  he  pulled  the  bedclothes  from 
her.  She  tried  to  pull  them  gently  back  again, 
but  in  turning  he  had  tightened  them  round  him, 
and  she  could  not  release  them  without  disturbing 
him.  She  sat  huddled  up  in  the  bed  for  a  while, 
and  then  she  climbed  out  of  it,  and  stood  inde- 
cisively on  the  floor.  She  realized  suddenly  that 
she  was  staring  into  the  looking-glass  which  re- 
flected a  tired,  worn  face.  .  .  .  Then  she  remem- 
bered a  tale  that  had  been  told  to  her  when  she  was 
a  child.  She  must  not  look  into  the  mirror  at  night, 
lest  the  devil  should  grin  at  her  out  of  it,  because 
of  her  vanity.  .  .  .  She  had  forgotten  that  story 
until  that  moment,  but  now  she  remembered  how 
it  had  frightened  her  when  she  was  a  little  girl ; 
and  she  caught  a  vision  of  herself  creeping  to  btnl 
ui    tlic   dark,   not  daring   to  look   toward   the    table 


122  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

where  the  looking-glass  stood  for  fear  the  Evil 
One  should  laugh  at  her,  while  flames  emitted 
from  his  mouth  and  eyes.  She  had  had  to  shut  her 
eyes  very  closely  together  as  she  crept  past  the 
table,  and  always  she  had  climbed  into  bed  in  a 
panic  and  had  slid  under  the  clothes  with  her  eyes 
shut. 

"What  a  thing  to  be  tellin'  a  child!"  she  mur- 
mured to  herself. 

It  was  odd  that  she  should  remember  that  tale 
to-night,  and  odder  still  that  she  should  have  been 
gazing  into  the  mirror  without  knowing  at  first  that 
she  was  doing  so.  She  laughed  a  little  when  she  saw 
her  husband's  reflection  in  it.  .  .  .  Then  she  gath- 
ered up  her  clothes  and  carried  them  into  the  kitchen. 
She  shut  the  room  door  behind  her  very  quietly,  and 
when  she  had  done  so,  she  went  up  the  stairs  tb  the 
room  where  Esther  lay, 

"Who's  that.'*"  demanded  Esther,  starting  up  in 
alarm. 

"It's  all  right,  Essie,  dear !"  she  answered.  "It's 
me !" 

"What's  wrong.?" 

"Nothin's  wrong,"  slie  said.  "I'm  comin'  in  by 
the  side  of  you.  I  couldn't  bear  to  stay  with  him 
any  longer!" 

She  got  into  the  bed  and  lay  down  beside  Esther. 
They  lay  with  their  backs  touching,  and  did  not 
speak,  though  neither  of  them  slept. 

"Are  you  asleep,  Martha?"  said  Esther  at 
last, 

"Not  yet,  Esther !" 

"Turn  round,  will  you.'*    ..." 

They  turned  toward  each  other,  and  Esther  crept 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  123 

into  her  sister's  arms,  and  la}'  as  a  child  lies  on  its 
mother's  breast. 

"It's  quare  him  to  bo  home  again,"  she  said. 

"Aye,  it  is." 

"He's  quarely  changed." 

"Aye !" 

Esther  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  but  she  could 
not  see  her  face  very  clearly.  They  were  very  quiet, 
and  it  seemed  to  Esther  that  her  sister  had  fallen 
asleep.  Her  eyes  were  shut,  and  her  breath  came 
regularly.  But  Mrs.  Martin  did  not  sleep  that 
night,  though  she  made  no  movement  to  show  that 
she  was  awake  when  Esther  wriggled  out  of  her  arms 
and  turned  away  to  sleep. 

"Aye,  he's  changed  quarely,"  she  said  to  herself, 
and  composed  herself   to  wait  for  the  morning. 


CHAPTER    XI 

He  preferred  to  take  his  breakfast  in  bed  on  Sunday 
morning,  and  for  that  she  was  thankful.  There 
was  confusion  in  her  mind.  She  had  longed  for  his 
return,  but  now  that  he  was  at  home  again,  she 
was  uncertain  of  the  strength  of  her  desire.  The 
odd  feeling  of  disgust  which  had  come  upon  her  in 
the  night,  and  compelled  her  to  leave  his  bed,  still 
held  her.  It  seemed  to  her  to  be  indecent  that  she 
should  lie  with  a  man  whom  she  had  not  seen  for 
sixteen  years,  and  of  whose  life  in  that  time  she 
knew  nothing.  There  ought  to  have  been  another 
period  of  wooing,  a  fresh  time  of  courtship,  a  new 
marriage  .  .  .  and  he  had  not  even  kissed  her. 
When  she  had  climbed  into  the  bed  beside  him,  he 
had  grunted  in  his  sleep.  She  wondered  whether  he 
knew  she  had  lain  beside  him.   .   .   . 

Where  had  he  been  all  this  time.?  She  had  not 
speculated  on  that  question  when  he  was  away  from 
home,  for  all  her  desire  was  that  he  should  return ; 
but  now  the  questions  thrust  themselves  up  in  her 
mind,  and  shouted  out  for  answers.  What  had  he 
been  doing  since  he  left  her.^*  How  had  he  managed 
to  change  himself  into  this  loose-looking  lump  of  a 
man.''  She  remembered  again  the  incident  of  the 
drunken  sailor  who  had  babbled  about  his  wife 
in  Charlestown.    .    .    .    She  might  not  be  the  only 

124 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  125 

woman.  There  might  be  many  more.  There  might 
be  children.  .  .  .  How  could  she  account  for  his  long 
absence  from  home.'*  Jamesej's  mind  was  full  of 
suspicion,  and  Henry  Mahaffy  and  his  wife  would 
be  in  the  house  presently  demanding  explanations. 
.   .   .  And,  then,  Esther !  .   .   . 

"I'd  best  be  tellin'  the  truth  to  them!"  she  said 
to  herself. 

She  went  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom  where  her 
husband  lay,  and  knocked  on  it.  It  struck  her 
that  it  was  an  odd  thing  for  a  woman  to  knock  at 
the  door  of  her  own  Ix^droom  because  her  husband 
lay  in  it.  She  had  never  done  anything  like 
that  in  the  days  before  he  went  away.  That 
showed.  .  .  . 

He  grunted  at  her  as  she  entered  the  room. 

"It's  you,  is  it.?"  he  said,  stretching  himself,  and 
yawning  so  that  she  could  see  into  a  monstrous 
throat.     "Where's  the  paper.?" 

"Paper!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Aye,  the  newspaper!" 

She  laughed.  "Don't  you  know  it's  Sunday?" 
she  said.  "There's  no  papers  in  this  country  on  a 
Sunday  whatever  there  is  in  America.  You  can 
have  the  Saturday  Night  that  Jamescy  brought 
down  with  him  from  Belfast  yesterday !" 

"It's  a  quare  sort  of  a  country  doesn't  have  papers 
on  a  Sunday,"  he  said. 

Some  strain  of  Ulster  Sabbatarianism  stirred  in 
her  as  she  listened  to  him. 

"It's  a  quare  sort  of  a  country  that  does  have 
papers  on  God's  day,"  she  retorted.  "I  suppose 
you're  goin'  to  lie  on  to  dinner-time.''  Jamesey  an' 
Aggie's    away    to    church    this    long    time,    an'    it 


126  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

would  mebbe  'a'  done  you  good  to  go  along  with 
them !" 

"I've  no  use  for  churches,"  he  replied.  "Is  there 
nothin*  to  read.'"' 

"There's  the  Saturday  Night!  .  .  ." 

"A  lot  of  ould  futball!"  he  said,  interrupting 
lier. 

"Well,  if  that'll  not  content  you,  there's  the 
Horner's  Penny  Stories  that  Aggie  reads,  an'  if  you 
don't  want  that,  there's  the  Bible  and  the  Foxe's 
Book  of  Martyrs!" 

"Och,  for  Jases'  sake!"  he  said  in  disgust,  "I'm 
not  a  child  goin'  to  the  Sabbath-school.  You  can 
go  out  of  this  now,  an'  leave  me  to  get  a  bit  more 
sleep  if  you  have  nothin'  dacent  in  the  house  to 
read !" 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  with  her 
back  to  the  foot  of  it,  so  that  she  could  look  into 
his  face. 

"James,"  she  said,  "have  you  thought  of  what 
you're  goin'  to  tell  the  childer  and  every  one.-"' 

"Tell  the  childer  what.'"'  he  demanded,  with  his 
head  partly  under  the  bedclothes. 

"About  you.  They  thought  you  were  drowned, 
an'  I  never  told  them  you  left  me  I  They'll  think 
it  quare  you  never  comin'  home  again  til  now!" 

He  pulled  the  bedclothes  from  his  face,  and  sat 
up.  His  hair  was  ruffled,  and  his  eyes  were  blood- 
shot and  red  at  the  lids.  He  blinked  at  her  sleepily, 
and  again  he  yawned.  .  .  .  His  long,  yellow  teeth 
sickened  her  for  a  moment.  .  .  .  She  had  longed 
for  this  man's  return ! 

"You  mean  you  want  to  tell  them  I  run  away 
from  3'ou.^"  he  said. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  12 


"Aye,"  she  said.  "It'll  be  best  to  do  that. 
There's  no  good  tellin'  lies,  an'  then  havin'  to  pile 
lies  on  the  top  of  them!" 

He  lay  back  on  the  pillow,  and  did  not  speak  for 
a  few  moments. 

"Have  you  nothin'  to  su/^gest,  James?"  she 
said. 

"That  wee  girl'll  be  quare  an'  upset  if  she  knows 
the  truth.'"'  he  said  in  a  questioning  tone. 

"Aggie,  do  you  mean?" 

"Aye !" 

"I  daresay  she  will.  So  will  Jamesey.  That's 
natural  enough.  It's  not  nice  nor  pleasant  to  be 
thinkin'  that  your  da's  a  man  that  deserted  your 
mother,  an'  her  with  a  child  comin'  on  her!" 

"She's  the  right  wee  girl,  that!"  he  said,  disre- 
garding her  remarks  about  himself.  "I  wouldn't 
have  her  upset  for  the  world!" 

"There's  upsets  for  every  one  in  the  world,  young 
or  ould !" 

"Ah,  but  not  upsets  the  like  of  this  one.  It  would 
be  a  pit\'  to  hurt  the  young  girl!    ..." 

"It'll  have  to  be  done  sometime,  an'  it  had  better 
be  done  now  nor  later  when  it'll  be  harder!" 

"Oh,  but  sure  it  niightn't  get  harder,  Martha !" 
His  voice  had  a  new  tone  in  it,  a  note  of  softness. 
"It  might  get  easier.  See  here,  Martha,  don't  say 
nothin'  just  yet  a  wee  while,  an'  we'll  mebbe  find  a 
way  out  of  it.  I'd  like  the  wee  girl  to  think  well 
of  me  before  she  finds  out  the  truth!" 

She  began  to  see  into  the  man's  mind.  He  was 
proud  of  Aggie,  and  was  anxious  to  have  her  love. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  had  shown  respect 
for  the  opinion  of  another  person.     "She's  the  riglit 


128  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

wee  girl,"  he  said  to  her.  He  had  never  said  that 
of  his  wife.  He  offered  no  apologies  to  her  for  what 
he  had  done  nor  had  he  yet  told  her  of  what  he 
had  been  doing  while  he  was  away;  but  he  was 
fearful  lest  Aggie  should  turn  away  from  him  be- 
cause of  what  he  had  done  to  her  mother. 

"I'll  mebbe  tell  her  myself,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  when  he  said  that. 

"Ah,  you  needn't  laugh,"  he  continued.  "I'll  tell 
her  right  enough  when  I've  made  her  fond  of  me. 
She's  near  fond  of  me  already.  You'll  not  say 
nothin'  to  her  yet  a  while,  will  you,  Martha?"  He 
leaned  across  the  bed  and  took  her  hand  in  his.  "I 
treated  you  bad,  Martha.  I  know  that  rightly,  an' 
I'm  quare  an'  sorry  for  it,  but  I'll  do  my  best  to 
make  up  to  you  for  it.     I  will  in  sang!" 

She  knew  that  he  had  no  regrets,  and  that  this 
sudden  display  of  sorrow  was  a  trick  to  win  her 
from  her  purpose  of  telling  her  story  to  her  children, 
but  although  she  knew  that  he  was  pretending  to 
a  repentance  he  did  not  feel,  she  felt  sorry  for  him. 
It  seemed  wonderful  to  her  that  Aggie  should  have 
succeeded  with  him  when  Esther  and  she  had  failed, 
and  maybe  many  another  woman,  too.  That 
woman  in  Charlestown!  .  .  .  She  asked  him  to 
tell  her  what  he  had  been  doing  since  he  left 
her. 

"Knockin'  about,"  he  said  shortly. 

She  told  him  of  the  drunken  sailor  whose  wife  had 
been  stolen  from  him  in  Charlestown. 

"Och,  her!"  was  all  he  said. 

She  got  up  from  the  bed  and  stood  looking  down 
on  him.  "You're  poor  comfort  for  a  woman, 
James !"  she  said. 


MRS.  MARTINIS  MAN  129 

"Ah,  for  Jases'  sake,  don't  start  preachin' !"  he 
exclaimed  petulantly. 

"What  got  you  in  the  state  you  are?"  she  asked. 
"You're  not  the  man  you  were !"' 

"Knockin'  about  done  it.  .  .  .  Quit  talkin'  for 
dear  sake!" 

"I've  a  right  to  know  about  you,  James,"  she 
insisted.  "You've  come  home  to  live  on  rae,  I  sup- 
pose ...  or  were  you  thinkin'  of  lookin'  for 
work !" 

"I've  done  enough.  I've  come  home  for  a 
rest !" 

She  sighed  as  she  replied,  "I  thought  so.  Well, 
James,  I  don't  mind  what  you  do.  You  can  work 
or  not  as  you  like.  I've  enough  for  the  two  of  us, 
an'  a  bit  over,  but  if  you  do  stay  here  idlin'  your 
time  away,  you'll  do  it  on  my  terms.  Do  you  hear 
me.?" 

"I  hear  you  right  enough !" 

"What  have  you  done,  then,  since  you  left  me.'"' 

"It's  no  good  you  askin'  me  them  questions!  ..." 

"I  want  to  know.  Just  for  the  sake  of 
the  thing!" 

"Well,  you'll  not  bo  pleased  with  what  you 
hear." 

"I  can't  help  that!" 

He  lay  in  silence,  gazing  at  the  ceiling,  and  she 
sat  down  again  on  the  bed  and  waited  for  him  to 
begin. 

"I  was  in  jail  a  while,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Ah,  my  God!    ..." 

"I  toul'  you  not  to  ask  me  questions !" 

She  cried  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then,  gathering 
up    her    courage    again,    she    dried    her    tears,    and 


130  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

asked  him  to  go  on  with  his  story.  But  he  would 
not  tell  her  any  more.  When  she  asked  him  how 
Jie  had  earned  his  living,  he  said,  "Knockin'  about !" 
and  would  not  speak  more  plainly. 

"What    did    you    come    home    for,    then.'"'    she 
said. 

"I  was  tired  of  America,  an'  I  thought  mebbe 
I'd  do  better  here,"  he  replied.  "An'  I  was  right 
to  come,  too.  You've  a  dacent  house,  Martha,  but 
you  were  always  the  sort  to  get  on.  If  I'd  knowed 
before,  I'd  'a'  come  home  sooner.  I  hadn't  a  ha'- 
penny when  I  landed  in  Liverpool.  I  woi'ked  my 
way  across  from  America,  an'  I  got  a  stoker  on  a 
Belfast  boat  to  let  me  down  into  the  stoke  hole  with 
him.  He  had  the  quare  bother  hidin'  me.  .  .  . 
He  give  me  a  shillin',  and  I  bought  my  breakfast 
with  it,  and  then  started  to  walk  here.  I  could 
hardly  move  an  inch  I  was  that  weak,  an'  I  lost 
my  way  on  the  Hollywood  hills.  That's  why  I  was 
so  late!"  He  stopped  speaking,  and  then  began  to 
laugh.  "It's  quare  to  think  of  me  workin'  me  pas- 
sage home,  an'  walkin'  all  the  way  from  Belfast 
without  a  bite  in  my  belly,  an'  you  here  with  a  gran' 
shop  an'  plenty  of  money  and  food.  .  .  .  You  done 
well  with  my  money,  Martha,  that  I  left  you  when 
I  went  away!" 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so!" 

"Aye,  you  done  well  with  it.    .    .    ,    You'll  not  say 
a  word  to  Aggie,  will  you.''     Not  yet  awhile!" 

"She'll  have  to  be  told  some  time." 

"No    matter    for    that.      I'll    mebbe    make    up    a 
story !" 

She  thought  for  a   few   moments,  and  then  con- 
sented to  keep  silent.     "Very  well,"  she  said,  "I'll 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  131 

not  say  nothin'  yet,  but  it'll  be  Imi'd  to  keep  them 
from  talkin'.  It'll  be  you'll  have  to  quieten  them. 
I'll  tell  no  lies  for  you.  Will  you  be  gettin'  up 
now.'"' 

"After  a  minute  or  two,"  he  replied.  "Is  there 
any  porter  in  the  house.?" 

"There  is  not,"  she  answered. 

"I've  a  drouth  on  me  you  wouldn't  hardly 
believe !" 

"There's  plenty  of  buttermilk  in  the  house," 
she  said  as  she  walked  toward  the  door  of  the 
room. 

"Buttermilk !"  he  exclaimed  in  disgust. 

When  she  returned  to  the  kitchen,  she  found 
Esther  standing  there,  dressed  as  for  a  journey. 

"Esther !"  she  exclaimed. 

"I'm  goin'  now,  jNIartha !"  Esther  said,  coming 
swiftly  to  her  sister  and  putting  her  arms  about 
her.  "I  couldn't  stop  another  hour  in  the  house, 
an'  him  here !" 

"But    ..." 

"It's  all  right,  Martha,  dear.  I'm  goin'  over  to 
Millisle  to  stay  with  Maggie  Gather  a  wee  while. 
I  daresay  they'll  be  willin'  to  lodge  me  'til  I  think 
what  I'm  goin'  to  do.  I  might  go  to  Belfast. 
That's  what  I  tliink  most  about.  You'll  talk  to 
Jamesey,  will  you  not,  about  him  comin'  to  lodge 
with  me  if  I  take  a  shop  there.  Ask  him  where- 
abouts in  Belfast  would  be  the  best  to  go!  .  .  ." 
I'hcy  could  hear  James  stirring  in  the  bedroom. 
"Don't  keep  me  now,  Martha.  I  don't  want  to  see 
hinj  again.     I  couldn't  bear  it!" 

"It's  a  pity,  Esther,  for  you  to  be  goin'  like 
this!" 


1§«  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"It  would  be  a  bigger  pity  for  me  to  stop!"  She 
paused  for  a  few  moments  and  gazed  closely  at  her 
sister.  She  stood  with  her  hands  firmly  fixed  on 
Martha's  arms,  and  then  quickly  pulled  her  to  her 
and  kissed  her  passionately.  "I  wish  I  wasn't  leavin' 
you,  Martha,  but  I  have  to.  That's  the  God's 
truth !  It's  terrible  to  be  longin'  for  a  thing,  an' 
then  not  want  it  when  you  get  it.  That's  the  way 
it  is  with  me.  You've  won  in  the  end,  haven't  you, 
Martha?" 

"Have  I,  Esther.?" 

They  walked  toward  the  door  of  the  house. 

"Will  I  come  down  the  road  with  you  a  wee 
bit?"  Mrs.  Martin  asked  as  they  passed  out  of  the 
house. 

"Aye,  do,  Martha,"  Esther  replied.  "I'll  tell 
Johnny  Cairnduff  to  call  for  my  things,  an'  he  can 
bring  them  over  on  the  long  car.  It'll  save  me  car- 
ryin'  them  myself." 

The^^  drifted  down  tlie  street,  talking  of  trivial 
things  as  they  walked.  Would  Martha  be  sure  to 
remember  to  tell  the  traveler  from  McLelland's 
in  Belfast  that  the  invoice  for  the  last  crate  of 
crockery  was  not  correctly  made  out?  Would 
Esther  like  a  pattern  of  the  stuff  Martha  was  getting 
for  her  new  dress?  Wasn't  it  quare  the  way  the 
days  were  drawing  in?  There  hadn't  been  much 
of  a  summer  that  year,  though  God  knew  it  was 
better  than  the  summer  they  had  the  year  before. 
It  was  hard  to  tell  what  was  coming  over  the 
weather  nowadays,  things  were  that  changed. 
Did  Esther  remember  the  time  when  the  snow 
was  near  six  feet  deep,  and  their  da  had  to  dig  a 
passap;e    from   the    door    to    tlie   street   before   they 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  133 

could  get  out  or  in?  There  was  no  snow  as  deep 
as  that  these  times.  Some  winters  there  was  hardly 
enough  snow  to  whiten  the  ground.  Esther  had 
read  in  the  Belfast  Evening  Telegraph  that  the 
change  in  the  climate  had  something  to  do  with  the 
Gulf  Stream. 

"Dear-a-dcar !"  Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed  when 
she  heard  of  this,  "isn't  it  quare  the  way  things 
are?" 

They  walked  along  the  road  leading  to  Millisle, 
Martha  barelieaded  and  Esther  wearing  her  Sunday 
hat, 

"They'll  be  gettin'  out  of  church  in  a  wee 
while,"  Mrs.  Martin  said.  "Aggie  an'  Jaraesey'U 
be  quarely  disappointed  when  they  hear  you've 
gone !" 

Esther  did  not  answer.  She  looked  before  her 
without  seeing  anything. 

"Well,  by-bye,  Esther!"  Mrs.  Martin  said 
shortly. 

'By-bye,  Martha !" 

'You'll  send  word  now  an'  again  how  you  are?" 

Esther  nodded  her  head. 

"An'  I'll  let  you  know  what  Jamesey  says  about 
Belfast.  He'll  be  right  an'  glad  of  your  company, 
I'm  sure !" 

"I  hope  so." 

"Aye!" 

They  stood  as  if  they  were  waiting  for  something, 
but  neither  of  them  said  any  more.  Then  Mrs. 
Martin  said,  "By-bye,  Esther!"  and  Esther  re- 
plied, "By-bye,  Martha!"  but  still  they  did  not 
move. 

"It'll  be  brave  an'  nice  for  your  walk  to  Millisle," 


"1 


134  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

Martha  remarked  because  she  had  nothing  else  to 
say  and  yet  could  not  turn  to  go  home.  She  glanced 
up  at  the  sky  as  she  spoke.  "It's  kept  up  fine!" 
she  added. 

"Aye,  it  has." 

They  still  stood  about  on  the  road,  Esther  gazing 
queerly  in  front  of  her,  and  Martha  looking  now 
at  the  sky  and  now  at  the  sea,  and  now  at  Esther 
and  now  at  the  ground. 

"Well,  I'd  better  be  gettin'  back  again,"  Martha 
said  jerkily.  She  made  a  movement  as  she  spoke, 
but  Esther  remained  standing  as  stiffly  as  before. 

"It'll  be  lonesome  without  you,"  Martha  added. 
"The  house'll  not  seem  the  same.  But  mebbe  it's  for 
the  best.     So,  by-bye,  Esther !" 

"By-bye,  Martha !" 

Mrs.  Martin  walked  off.  She  did  not  turn  to  look 
back  at  her  sister,  nor  did  she  look  on  either  side 
of  her.  She  walked  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  cor- 
ner of  the  street  where  her  house  was.  Some  one 
called  to  her  as  she  passed  by,  but  she  did  not 
answer,  and  the  woman  who  had  called  to  her 
became  sulky,  and  said  to  some  one  in  her  house 
that  "them  Mahaffys  was  always  a  proud  lot !" 
She  went  on,  holding  her  hands  rigidly  by  her 
sides,  walking  as  if  she  were  trying  not  to  see  any- 
thing but  the  corner  of  the  street  In  which  she 
lived.  Then  she  heard  steps  behind  her,  the 
sound  of  some  one  hastily  pursuing  her,  and  gasping 
cries  and  the  choking  noise  of  some  one  shouting 
with  difficulty.  When  she  turned  round,  she  saw 
that  Esther  was  upon  her,  and  before  she  could 
say  "What  ails  you,  Esther,  dear.^"  she  was  fast 
in  Esther's  arms,  and  Esther  was  kissing  her  and 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  135 

pressing  her  so  tightly  that  she  could  scarcely 
breathe.  And  as  suddenly  as  she  was  seized,  she 
was  released,  and  Esther,  speaking  nothing,  was 
hurrying  awaj'^,  running  on  the  road  that  led  to 
Milhsle. 

"Didn't  I  always  say  them  Mahaffys  was  quarc !" 
exclaimed  the  woman  who  had  greeted  Martha  with- 
out obtaining  a  response  as  she  watched  the  sisters 
embrace  and  separate. 

"Aye,  they're  the  quare  lot  althegether !"  said 
some  one  who  could  not  be  seen. 


CHAPTER    Xn 

Esther  walked  swiftly  on  the  way  to  Millisle.  She 
had  left  Ballyreagh  behind  her,  and  was  now  in  the 
open  country.  There  was  no  one  on  the  road  but 
herself,  and  so  she  allowed  her  emotion  to  have 
free  expression.  She  cried  as  if  she  were  hidden 
in  a  room,  and  her  breasts  heaved  with  anger.  All 
her  reserves  were  abandoned;  her  visions  were  de- 
stroyed. She  was  crying,  not  because  James  Martin 
had  returned  without  love  for  her  .  .  .  she  had 
ceased  to  weep  on  that  account  .  .  .  but  be- 
cause he  was  not  the  man  for  whom  she  had 
longed.  It  was  the  waste  of  life  for  which  she 
mourned.  This  wreck  of  a  man  was  not  the  James 
Martin  to  whom  she  had  given  her  love  and  her  life. 
Her  James  Martin  had  been  strong  and  rough  and 
determined,  and  had  had  a  deep  chest  and  a  clear 
eye  and  a  hand  that  could  crush  a  thing  easily ;  but 
this  James  Martin  was  a  shadow,  a  shifting  shadow, 
rough,  indeed,  and  full  of  hard  words,  but  not 
strong,  not  clear  eyed.    .    .    . 

Her  tears  ceased  to  flow,  although  her  breasts  still 
heaved.  She  began  to  talk  to  herself  in  a  loud  voice, 
and  now  and  then  she  struck  her  hands  together  to 
emphasize  some  word  that  she  spoke. 

"Isn't  it  the  quare  fool  you've  been,  Esther  Ma- 
haffy,"  she  said,  "to  be  waitin'  all  these  years  for 

136 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  137 

that?  An'  then  him  not  carin'  at  all !  You  had 
little  wit  to  be  wastin'  your  time  on  him  when  there 
was  many  another  man  would  have  had  you  gladly, 
an'  made  you  a  good  husband.  The  dirty  beast,  he 
is !  To  be  treatin'  me  that  way,  an'  me  wouldn't 
have  him  now  if  he  was  to  come  on  his  hands  an' 
knees  an'  beg  me  to  have  him !"  She  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  and  made  a  gesture  with  her 
hands  as  if  she  were  informing  some  incredulous  lis- 
tener of  James  Martin's  conduct  and  appearance. 
"Did  you  see  the  look  on  his  face?"  she  said.  "Like 
a  man  that's  never  sober.  All  dirty-lookin'  an'  his 
eyes  bloodshot !     Och  !" 

She  wrinkled  her  face  into  a  look  of  loathing  and 
disgust,  and  then  resumed  her  walk.  "It's  a  poor 
reward,"  she  said  to  herself,  "Martha's  gettin'  for 
her  years  of  waitin'  an'  workin',  an'  I'm  thinkin' 
she'll  mebbe  be  sorrier  he's  here  nor  she  was  when 
he  wasn't !"  Her  voice  hardened,  and  a  scowl  came 
across  her  face.  "Him  an'  his  Aggie !"  she  exclaimed 
harshly.  "Makin'  little  of  me  like  that  afore  Jane 
Mahaffy,  the  bitter  bitch,  an'  sayin'  Aggie  was  nicer 
nor  me  when  I  was  her  age!"  She  struck  her 
fists  together.  "It's  a  lie,  that's  what  it  is,  an' 
well  he  knows  it.  I  was  nicer  nor  Aggie  easy  when 
I  was  as  young  as  her,  an'  anybody  that  knew 
me  could  tell  him  that  even  if  he  didn't  know  it 
himself. 

"There's  not  half  the  fellows  comes  after  her  that 
used  to  come  after  me,  an'  me  not  takin'  no  notice 
of  them  at  all  except  him.  An'  this  is  all  the  thanks 
I  get.  ...  It  serves  me  right  .  .  .  but  I 
wouldn't  have  him  now  if  he  wanted  me.  I'd  die 
sooner  nor  let  him  touch  me  again !" 


138  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

Slie  walktd  on  for  a  while  without  speaking, 
though  her  thouglits  continued  to  be  active  and 
angry.  Sometimes  her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound 
came  from  them.  When  she  had  Avalked  a  little  way 
in  this  manner,  her  foot  struck  against  a  stone  in  the 
road,  and  she  kicked  it  violently  before  her,  and 
then,  when  she  came  to  it  again,  she  stooped  and 
picked  it  up.  She  turned  and  faced  toward  Donag- 
hadee  and  threw  the  stone  as  hard  as  she  could 
down  the  road. 

"I  wish  it  would  hit  you,"  she  said,  and  then  she 
laughed.  "Dear,  oh  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  "amn't  I 
the  bad  shot?  But  it  would  serve  him  right  if  he 
was  to  be  hurted!" 

Her  anger  abated,  and  she  moved  across  the  road 
and  sat  down  on  the  grass  under  the  hedge.  "God, 
it's  wet!"  she  said,  hastily  jumping  up  again. 
She  stood  feeling  her  clothes  and  gazing  about  her. 

"Well,  I'm  the  quare  one,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"to  be  losin'  my  temper  over  the  head  of  thon  man  ! 
It's  thankful  I  should  be  I'm  not  married 
on  him.  Poor  ould  Martha!  .  .  .  Och,  but  sure 
it's  silly  of  her  to  be  lettin'  him  stay  with  her.  She 
knows  rightly  he's  no  good  to  her.  She  couldn't 
bear  to  sleep  with  him  last  night,  an'  no  wonder, 
neither!"  She  shivered  as  she  said  this  to  her- 
self. 

She  glanced  about  her,  and  then  resumed  her 
walk.  "It's  a  quare  nice  day  after  the  storm," 
she  said  aloud.  "A  quare  nice  day !  .  .  .  I'd 
better  be  hurryin',  or  the  Cathers'll  have  had 
their  dinner  ...  I  suppose  Martha's  layin'  their 
dinner  now!  An'  me  made  the  broth  yesterday!" 
Her    anger    returned    for    a    moment    or    two.      "I 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAX  139 

wish  it  would  choke  him,"  she  said  passionately. 
Then  her  thoughts  lay  supine  in  her  mind,  and  she 
simply  walked  along,  but  in  a  little  while  they  lifted 
up  again.  "I  wonder  what  time  he  got  up.'"'  she 
said  to  herself.  "That  was  the  nice  hour  to 
be  lyin'  to !  Lettin'  on  he  was  tired !  Lazy,  he  was, 
that's  what  he  was!  I  wouldn't  put  it  past  him. 
Martha  saw  the  changed  he  was,  the  way  I  did,  too. 
Aye,  indeed  she  did!  She  said  herself  he  was 
changed.  An'  so  he  is!  You  would  near  think  it 
wasn't  the  same  man.  ...  I  wonder  will  she  sleep 
with  him  the  night,  or  what  will  she  do.?  I  wouldn't 
go  anear  him.  ...  If  Jamesey'll  come  an'  lodge 
with  me  in  Belfast,  I'll  be  happy  an'  content.  I 
wish  Jamesey  wasn't  like  his  da.  .  .  .  iNIaggie 
Cather'll  wonder  what  brings  me  at  tliis  time 
of  day.  I'll  have  to  tell  her  somethin'  or 
another !    .    .    . " 

She  came  to  the  gateway  of  a  field,  and  she 
stopped  for  a  while  to  look  at  a  flight  of  sea-birds 
across  the  sky.  They  circled  in  the  air,  calling  to 
each  other,  and  then  came  down  with  fluttering  wings 
and  settled  in  the  middle  of  the  field. 

"Them's  the  lovely  birds!"  she  exclaimed,  gazing 
at  them  as  they  made  little  short  flights  from  the 
ground  and  then  sank  quickly  back  again  and 
contended  together  for  the  food  they  had  discovered. 
Beyond  them  lay  the  sea,  no  longer  raging  as 
it  had  been  in  the  night.  It  was  very  high,  and 
the  waves  were  broken  so  that  they  looked  like 
beaten  silver  in  the  sunliglit.  The  seas  rolling 
up  in  great  folds  had  subsided,  and  now  there  were 
little  splashing  curves  of  water  running  and 
twisting    and     jumping    and    falling    in    white    con- 


140  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

fusion.  The  sky  was  full  of  fleecy  white  clouds 
that  had  gray  edges,  and  here  and  there  was  a  big 
space  of  blue  heaven.  The  ships  that  had  en- 
dured the  roughness  of  the  night  were  sailing 
on  the  sea  in  peace ;  there  was  a  look  of  proud 
relief  about  them;  as  if  they  were  glad  the 
storm  was  over,  but  were  pleased  to  remember 
that  they  had  not  submitted  to  it.  The  little  fish- 
ing-smacks at  anchor  were  rocked  as  gently  by  the 
sea  as  a  child  in  its  cradle  is  rocked  by  its  mother, 
and  the  boats  that  sailed  about  the  coast  hung  out 
their  sails  of  white  and  brown  as  if  they  were  ban- 
ners carried  by  a  company  of  victorious  sol- 
diers. The  air  was  full  of  soft  sounds :  birds  calling 
to  their  mates,  and  cattle  mooing  to  their  calves, 
and  children  shouting  in  exultation  because  the  day 
was  fine  and  the  sun  was  shining  and  the  wind 
blew  blithely  from  the  sea;  and  mingled  with  these 
sounds  were  the  sharp  shouts  of  men  laboring 
in  the  fields  and  the  slow  crack-crack  of  a  cart  lum- 
bering down  a  lane  while  the  driver  sang  to  himself 
and  the  horse,  and  cracked  his  whip  in  the  air. 
Esther  drew  in  a  long  breath,  and  smelt  the  kindly 
smell  of  burning  furze.  She  turned  her  head  to  look 
across  the  road  at  a  field  of  flax  in  flower,  and 
while  she  stood  thus,  a  cow  came  splashing  through 
the  mud  at  the  gate  and  stood  near  to  her.  She 
turned  and  looked  into  its  large,  clear,  placid 
eyes,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  it.  It  mooed  quietly 
and  thrust  its  muzzle  forward  and  nosed  her 
for  a  while;  and  then  it  moved  away  a  few  steps 
and  mooed  again.  A  calf  came  running  up  to 
it  in  the  half-tumbling  style  of  a  young,  weak  thing, 
and  when  It   saw  Esther,  it   thrust  its    tiny   head 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  141 

through  the  bars  of  the  gate,  and  began  to  suckle 
her  fingers. 

"Ah,  aren't  you  the  darlin'  wee  thing!"  she  said, 
stroking  its  head.  "An'  that  friendly  an'  all!  You 
know  rightly  I  wouldn't  harm  }' ou !" 

The  cow  came  closer  to  the  gate,  and  Esther  with- 
drew her  fingers  from  the  calf's  mouth,  and  patted 
the  cow  on  the  side,  and  when  she  had  done  so,  it 
mooed  again. 

"Aye,  indeed  that's  true !"  said  Esther  to  the 
cow. 

The  calf  thrust  its  mother  aside  and  tried  to  re- 
capture her  fingers. 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  P^sther  laughingly,  "I  don't 
want  to  be  sucked  any  more,  you  wee  tory  you ! 
Away  on  with  you  !  Away  to  your  ma,  there !"  She 
tried  to  push  it  toward  the  cow,  but  it  resisted  her. 

"Well,  there  you  are  then,  you  wee  rascal !"  she 
said,  giving  her  fingers  into  its  mouth  again.  She 
turned  to  the  cow  and  spoke  to  it.  "Are  you  waitin' 
for  the  man  to  come  an'  feed  you.-^"  she  said.  "An' 
is  it  late  he  is.^*  Ah,  sure,  they're  like  that.  They 
don't  care  whether  they  come  soon  or  late,  so  long's 
they  get  what  they  want!  .  .  .  Och,  is  it  takin' 
tJie  hand  off  me,  you  are.'"'  she  exclaimed  sud- 
denly to  the  calf,  pulling  her  fingers  from  its 
mouth.  "It's  a  wee  lad  you  are,  by  the  eager  you 
are !" 

The  cow  heard  a  noise  at  the  other  end  of  the 
field,  and  it  turned  quickly  and  ran  off,  mooing 
loudly  like  a  trumpet  as  it  ran,  and  the  calf,  with 
tail  awry,  went  scampering  after  it. 

"It's  a  nice  baste,  that !"  said  Esther  as  she 
watched  the  cow  out  of  sight. 


142  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

The  sea-birds  rose  in  the  air  again.  They  circled 
liigher  and  higher  until  the}'  became  a  thin,  dark 
line  against  the  light  of  the  morning,  and  then  her 
eyes  tired  of  watching  them. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  that,"  she  said,  and  she 
turned  away  from  the  gate  and  resumed  her  walk 
on  the  road  to  Millisle.  "It's  a  quare  pity  of  a 
woman,"  she  reflected,  "that  has  a  thing  in  her  mind 
the  time  I've  had  him  in  mine,  an'  then  it  to  be 
destroyed  on  her !" 

Maggie  Gather  was  sitting  at  the  door  of  her  home 
when  Esther  came  up  to  the  house.  She  jumped 
to  her  feet  when  she  saw  the  visitor  and  ran  to 
greet  her.  "For  dear  sake,  Esther!"  she  exclaimed, 
"is  that  you?" 

"Aye  it  is,  Maggie,"  Esther  replied,  "an'  I've 
come  to  stay  with  you  a  wee  while.  Will  you  let 
me.?" 

"Will  I  let  you !"  said  Maggie  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  cannot  understand  why  people  will  question 
foolishly.  "Sure  I  will,  an'  welcome.  My  da  an' 
ma'll  be  glad  to  see  you.  .  .  .  But  what  are  you 
comin'  for.?  Are  you  fell  out  with  Martha.?"  She 
laughed  as  she  said  this,  for  it  was  a  joke  with  the 
Gathers  that  no  one  could  quarrel  with  Martha, 
however  much  they  might  try  to  do  so.  "Or  are 
you  havin'  a  holiday  or  what.?" 

"I've  left  Martha's!"  said  Esther. 

Maggie  Gather's  face  lost  its  smile.  "You've  left 
lier!"  she  exclaimed  in  dismay.  "God  bless  my 
soul !    .    .    . " 

"I'll  tell  you  about  it  in  a  wee  while,  Maggie. 
Gan  I  come  in  now.?" 

"Aye  do,  Esther !" 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  11-3 

They  entered  the  cottage,  and  saw  Mr.  Gather, 
a  lean,  kindly  man,  sitting  in  the  window-seat.  He 
rose  and  shook  hands  with  Esther  as  she  entered. 
"I  saw  you  comin'  up  the  walk,"  he  said.  "An'  how 
are  j^ou  this  mornln',  I'm  right  an'  glad  to  sec 
you !" 

"I'm  bravely,  thank  you,"  Esther  replied,  sitting 
down  as  she  spoke. 

"Da,"  said  Maggie  Gather,  "Esther's  come  to  stay 
with  us  a  wee  while!    ..." 

"Aye,  daughter.'*" 

"If  you'll  have  me,  Mr.  Gather!"  said  Esther, 
smiling  at  the  old  man. 

He  went  to  her  and  patted  her  cheek.  "You 
know  rightly  you're  welcome  in  this  house,  Esther, 
an'  any  one  of  your  family !"  He  resumed  his  seat. 
"Tell  your  ma,  Maggie.  She's  out  in  the  yard 
strainin'  the  potatoes !" 

Mrs.  Gather,  carrying  a  pot  of  steaming  potatoes, 
came  into  the  kitchen  from  the  yard  as  he  said  this. 

"Well,  Esther,"  she  said,  "is  that  yourself.?" 

"She's  left  Martha's,  ma !"  said  Maggie  abruptly, 
"an'  she's  come  to  stay  with  us  a  wee  while!" 

Mrs.  Gather  put  the  pot  on  the  hob  and  turned  to 
look  in  astonishment  at  Esther.  "What  made  you 
do  that?"  she  said  to  Esther. 

"Her  man's  come  back  home !"  Esther  replied. 

"Her  man  !  .  .  .  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  he's 
not  dead.'"'  Esther  nodded  her  head.  "Gome  back 
agam.-*    ... 

"He  has,  indeed !"  said  Esther,  and  then  she  told 
them  what  she  knew  of  his  story. 

"Well,  wonders'll  never  cease!"  Mrs.  Gather 
exclaimed.      "To   think   of  him   comin'   back   to   the 


144  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

world  again.  Where  has  he  been  all  the 
thne?" 

Esther  said  that  she  did  not  know.  She  had  not 
waited  to  hear  the  story  of  his   adventures. 

"What  made  you  leave  Martha  now,  then.^" 
said  Mrs.  Gather,  as  they  sat  down  to  their 
dinner. 

"I  can't  bear  James,"  Esther  replied.  "He's  an 
awful  man!  ..."  She  hesitated  for  a  second  or 
two,  and  then  added,  "I  never  did  care  much  for 
him,  an'  now  he's  so  different  from  what  ho  was 
that  I  just  can't  bear  him  at  all!" 

Maggie  Gather  looked  at  her  sharply.  "I  didn't 
know  you  felt  that  way  about  him,'"'  she 
said. 

"Aye,  indeed  I  do,"  Esther  replied,  looking  at 
her  steadily.  "Wait  til  you  see  him  yourself, 
Maggie,  an'  you'll  not  be  wonderin'  at  me  not 
stoppin'  there  any  more.  Mrs.  Gather,  dear,  this 
is  the  quare  nice  broth.?  Did  you  make  it  your- 
self?" 

"No,  Maggie  made  it  yesterday.  Now,  tell  me, 
Esther,  what  like  is  your  sister's  man?    ..." 


She  slept  with  Maggie  Gather  that  night,  and 
when  ihey  were  stretched  in  bed  together,  she 
tried  hard  to  sleep,  but  she  could  not  do  so.  Her 
mind  flitted  continually  toward  Ballyreagh  and  she 
wondered  about  this  and  about  that.  What 
were  they  doing  now?  Had  James  asked  where 
she  was?  What  had  Jamesey  and  Aggie  said  when 
they  learned  tliat  she  had  left  the  house?  Had 
people  called  to  see  James  and  ask  what  he  had  been 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  146 

doing  all  these  years?  What  had  he  been  do- 
ing? .  .  .  Did  anj^one  notice  that  she  was  not 
there?  Did  anyone  remember  the  talk  there  used  to 
be  about  James  and  her  before  he  went  away?  She 
fancied  that  she  could  hear  them  whispering  to- 
gether. "So  the  sister's  not  here  after  all!"  "No, 
she's  away  til  friends  they  tell  me!"  "It  looks  as 
if  it  was  true,  that  yarn  we  heard  about  her  an' 
him!"  "Aye!  Och,  well,  you  could  hardly  expect 
the  woman  to  keep  her  in  the  house  now  after  the 
way  she  behaved  afore.  Did  you  never  hear  the 
stor}'  of  it?  They  were  caught  thegethcr  up  at  the 
Moat  one  night.      It  was   her   own  brother   caught 


them!    .    .    ." 

Damn  them,  that's  what  they  would  be  saying  to 
each  other  about  her,  and  then  they  would  look  at 
liim,  as  he  now  was,  that  ugly,  horrible  man,  and 
they  would  think  that  that  was  the  man  she  had 
loved.  They  would  not  have  the  wit  to  know  that 
the  man  in  whose  arms  she  had  lain  that  night  at 
the  Moat  was  a  different  sort  of  man,  and  they 
would  say  to  themselves,  "It's  quare  for  a  fine-lookin' 
woman  to  be  lettin'  herself  go  on  a  man  like  that !" 
She  had  not  let  herself  go  on  a  man  like  that !  They 
were  liars  if  they  said  that!  .  .  .  They  wouldn't 
know  that  she  went  away  from  the  house  because 
she  couldn't  bear  to  look  at  him.  They  would  think 
that  Martha  had  turned  her  out,  or  that  James 
was  in  no  mood  for  her,  and  had  caused  her  to  be 
sent  away.  .  .  .  She  twisted  suddenly  in  her  anger, 
and  Maggie  Gather,  who  was  almost  asleep,  sat  uji 
quickly  in  the  bed. 

"What  is  it,  Esther?"  she  said.  "What  ails 
you.?" 


146  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

Esther  became  quiet.  She  lay  on  her  side  and  did 
not  speak. 

"Esther,"  Maggie  repeated,  leaning  over  and  try- 
ing to  turn  her  round  so  that  she  could  see  her  face, 
"what's  the  matter.'*     Are  you  not  well.'"' 

"I'm  well  enough,  Maggie!" 

"But  you're  all  tremblin' !  .  .  .  Are  you  sorry 
you  left  Martha.?" 

Esther  turned  quickly  to  her.  "No,  I'm  not, 
Maggie!"  she  exclaimed  quickly.  "I'm  glad!  I'm 
glad,  do  you  hear.-^  I  wouldn't  stay  in  that  house 
no  more — not  for  the  whole  world.  I  left  of  my  own 
free  will." 

"Did  you  not  Hke  Martha.?" 

"It's  not  her,  Maggie.  I  love  her,  an'  I'm  heart- 
sore  to  be  leavin'  her.  It's  him.  I  hate  him.  I 
can't  bear  him.  Oh,  Maggie,  I'd  give  the  world  an' 
all  to  have  my  life  over  again !    .    .    . '' 

She  buried  her  face  in  Maggie's  nightdress  and 
began  to  cry. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  him,  Esther,"  said  Maggie 
softly. 

"No,  I  tell  you.     I  hate  him.    ..." 

"There  were  stories  put  about !    .    .    . " 

"I  know  there  was.  An'  they  were  true  stories, 
some  of  them,  but  they're  not  true  no  more,  for 
I'd  walk  the  streets  afore  I'd  let  him  come  anear 
me  again.  You  wouldn't  hardly  believe  the  change 
there  is  in  him.  An'  I've  wasted  all  this  time  on 
him,  Maggie.  Sixteen  years.  It's  awful,  Maggie, 
to  think  of  that.  It's  a  sin,  that's  what  it  is!  I 
never  thought  I'd  feel  like  that  about  him,  but 
I  do,  an'  I  can't  help  it.  When  I  think  of  him  I 
want  to  throw-off.     That's  how  it  is,  an'  I  couldn't 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  14T 

stay  in  the  house  with  him  no  more.  There'll  mebbe 
be  some'll  say  I  had  to  go  for  fear  it  would  begin 
all  over  again.  Jane'll  say  that.  I  know  she 
will.  That's  the  kind  she  is,  an'  she'll  go  about 
spreadin'  lies,  but  it's  not  true,  none  of  it,  Maggie, 
so  it's  not!" 

She  became  quiet,  and  presently  she  and  Maggie 
lay  down  again,  and  in  a  short  while  she  could 
hear  Maggie's  slow,  steady  breathing,  and  she 
knew  that  she  was  asleep.  She  lay  still.  Sixteen 
years,  she  thought  to  herself,  sixteen  years  of  hope 
and  long  desires  .  .  .  and  then  in  a  minute  .  .  . 
notliing! 

When  the  darkness  was  splintered  by  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  clouds  lost  their  blackness  and  became 
fleecy  and  shining  as  the  sun  strode  up  the  heavens 
throwing  long  trails  of  light  behind  him,  she  was 
lying  there  by  Maggie  Gather's  side,  still  mourning 
for  her  lost  years. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

The  Reverend  William  Haveron,  the  Presbyterian 
minister,  was  a  stovitly-built  man  with  a  ponderous 
manner.  His  square  face  was  padded  with  loose 
flesh,  and  his  lips  seemed  to  be  too  long  for  his 
mouth:  they  could  not  be  compressed  without  great 
creases  appearing  on  either  side  of  them.  He  wore 
little  dark  side-whiskers  that  stopj)ed  by  his  ears, 
and  save  for  these  he  was  clean-shaven;  for  he  was 
very  proud  of  his  regular,  white  teeth  and  was  un- 
willing to  hide  them  behind  a  mustache  or  beard. 
He  had  a  fat,  comfortable  look,  and  the  irreverent 
called  him  "Oily  Willie";  but  his  bulk  and  ease  were 
not  accompanied  b}^  a  sense  of  humor.  Heaven  had 
been  pleased  to  build  the  Reverend  William 
Haveron,  as,  indeed,  it  had  been  pleased  to  build 
many  Presbyterian  ministers  in  the  North  of  Ire- 
land, without  humor  or  perception :  in  place  of 
these,  he  had  self-sufficiency.  He  did  not  walk :  he 
swayed.  He  came  at  you  like  a  pendulum.  When 
he  stood  in  the  pulpit,  with  closed  eyes  and 
hands  tightly  clasped  over  the  big  open  Bible,  his 
body  swayed  slowly  from  side  to  side  while  he  recited 
the  long,  cumbersome,  spiritless  prayers  he  had  in- 
vented on  the  previous  day.  Little  boys,  hold- 
ing their  hands  over  their  faces  as  if  they  were 
consumed  with  piety,  would  peep  through  their  dis- 

148 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  149 

tended  fingers  at  the  swaying  preacher,  fasci- 
nated by  the  thought  that  one  day  he  might  sway 
too  far.    .     .     . 

He  read  long  sermons,  full  of  turgid  phrases,  and 
he  seldom  failed  to  fill  an  hour  with  his  thoughts 
on  wickedness.  The  fact  that  his  thouirhts  had 
been  worn  to  shreds  by  other  dull  preachers  did 
not  deter  him  from  wearing  them  still  more;  indeed, 
lie  was  so  pleased  with  what  he  composed  that  some- 
times he  preached  the  same  sermon  twice  in  the 
course  of  the  year.  When  he  exchanged  pulpits 
with  a  minister  from  Belfast  or  Newtownards 
or  Bangor,  he  economized  in  sermons ;  for  he  read 
one  which  he  had  preached  on  the  previous  Sunday 
to  the  fresh  congregation.  It  was  said  of  him  that 
once,  when  he  had  exchanged  pulpits  with  the 
Methodist  minister  in  Ballyreagh,  he  preached  to  the 
Methodists  in  the  evening  the  sermon  which  he  had 
preached  to  the  Presbyterians  in  the  morning. 

It  was  this  man  who  came  swaying  to  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin's house  on  Sunday  afternoon.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mahaffy  were  in  his  company. 

Mrs.  Martin  and  her  husband  were  sitting  before 
the  fire,  and  Aggie  was  sitting  near  them,  reading 
a  magazine.  Jamesey  had  wandered  down  to  the 
shore  to  gather  dulce  and  limpets,  he  said,  though 
the  truth  was  that  he  was  eager  to  get  away  from 
his  father's  presence.  He  had  been  told,  when 
he  came  home  from  church  that  morning,  that  his 
Aunt  Esther  had  suddenly  decided  to  go  and  stay 
with  the  Gathers  for  a  time,  and  he  was  disturbed 
in  his  mind  by  her  resolve.  He  brooded  over  her 
absence  during  tlie  dinner-time,  and  gradually  he 
began    to    associate    it    with    his    father's    return    to 


150  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

his  home.  He  could  not  understand  his  father.  He 
had  not  yet  said  a  word  about  the  cause  of  his  dis- 
appearance, nor  had  his  mother  again  referred  to 
the  subject.  Aggie  was  so  flattered  by  her  father's 
unconcealed  pride  in  her  that  she  was  content  to 
wait  until  he  chose  to  explain  his  absence;  but 
Jamesey  was  not  so  content.  ...  So  he  had  gone 
down  to  the  rocks  to  gather  dulce  and  limpets  as 
he  said,  but  very  few  did  he  gather.  He  sat  down 
on  a  large  rock  where  the  sea-weed  was  dry,  and 
tried  to  solve  the  mystery  of  his  father's  life  .  .  . 
and  while  he  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands, 
gazing  into  a  pool  of  salt  water  at  his  feet, 
the  Reverend  William  Haveron  knocked  at  Mrs. 
Martin's  door, 

"It's  Mr.  Haveron,  ma !"  exclaimed  Aggie,  hastily 
rising  and  hiding  her  magazine. 

"How're  you,  Aggie,"  said  the  minister,  offering 
his  fat,  freckled  fingers  to  the  girl.  "I've  just  come 
in  to  have  a  talk  with  your  father!" 

"I'm  rightly,  thank  you,  Mr.  Haveron!"  said 
Aggie,  withdrawing  to  the  side  of  the  kitchen.  She 
had  the  sense  of  discomfort  which  all  young  men 
and  women  in  Ireland  have  in  the  presence  of  a 
minister  or  a  priest.  She  forgot  to  greet  her 
uncle  and  aunt  until  they  reminded  her  of  their 
presence. 

The  minister  walked  over  to  Martha,  who  had 
risen  at  his  entry.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  lookin' 
so  well,  Mrs,  Martin,  though  I  didn't  see  you  in 
church  this  mornin' !"  He  offered  the  fat,  freckled 
fingers  to  her,  too,  and  then  turned  toward  her  hus- 
band.    "This  is  Mr,  Martin,  I  suppose.?"  he  said. 

Henry  Mahaffy   and  his  wife  sat  down  together 


MR».  MARTIN'S  MAN  151 

in  the  manner  of  people  who  have  come  to  listen  to 
a  story  which  they  hope  will  end  badly  for  those  who 
relate  it.  They  did  not  speak  after  they  had  bidden 
"Good-mornin' !"  to  Martha  and  James. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Haveron,"  Mrs.  Martin  replied  to  the 
minister,  "this  is  James !" 

James  Martin  still  lolled  in  his  chair,  but  he  had 
put  his  pipe  aside.  A  scowl  went  over  his  face  when 
he  saw  the  minister  come  toward  him,  and  then 
went  away  again.  He  got  up  from  his  seat,  and 
took  the  minister's  hand.  "How're  you,  sir!"  he 
said. 

"I'm  middling  well,"  Mr.  Haveron  replied,  "and 
I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  see  you,  and  to  learn  that 
you  have  returned  to  your  family  in  safety."  He 
made  a  motion  with  his  hand  toward  Henry  MahafFy 
and  his  wife.  "Your  dear  brother  and  sister  here 
have  been  tellin'  me  about  you,  an'  I  was  naturall}^ 
interested  to  see  you  and  to  learn  about  your  life 
since  you  left  home!" 

"It  was  very  thoughtful  of  them,"  James  INIartin 
muttered,  as  he  glanced  heavily  at  his  brother-in- 
law.  "I'm  obliged  to  them  for  the  interest  they're 
takin'  in  me !" 

The  minister  made  a  noise  of  satisfaction  with  his 
tongue  against  his  palate.  "Aye,"  he  said.  "Aye, 
indeed !  Of  course,  Mr.  Martin,  your  wife  does  not 
belong  to  my  congregation,  so  mcbbe  I  have  no  right 
to  be  here,  but  then  your  brother  an'  your  sister 
do,  an'  your  son  an'  daughter  come  many  a  time  to 
hear  me  preach  !    ..." 

"Oh,  aye,"  said  James  vaguely. 

"But  mebbc,  now  you're  home,  she'll  come,  too. 
I've  no  doubt  you'll  bring  iier  with  you  to  the  Lord's 


152  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

House.  I  don't  suppose  you're  an  Episcopalian, 
an'  if  j^ou're  not,  you  might  as  well  come  to  my 
church  as  go  elsewhere.  It's  a  grand  thing  to  see 
a  united  family  in  God's  House.  ..."  He  turned 
to  Martha.  "Mebbe  I'd  better  say  a  word  of 
prayer  before  we  sit  down  and  have  a  talk  together. 
Just  to  thank  God  for  all  His  goodness  to  us, 
and  for  bringing  your  husband  safely  home  to 
you!" 

Mrs.  Martin  looked  at  her  husband,  and  for  a 
moment  or  two  she  had  a  desire  to  laugh  out  loud, 
but  she  checked  it,  and  said  to  the  minister,  "Aye, 
you  can  pray  if  you  like !" 

Mr.  Haveron  closed  his  eyes,  and  began  to  pray, 
and  instantly  Henry  Mahaffy  and  liis  wife  knelt 
down  on  their  knees  and  buried  their  faces  in  their 
hands.  Aggie,  too,  knelt  down,  but  her  father  and 
her  mother  remained  as  the^^  were.  James  Martin 
looked  at  the  swaying  form  of  the  minister  as  if 
he  were  in  doubt  what  to  do,  and  then,  with  a  look 
of  inquiry  at  Martha,  he  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
and  rested  his  chin  on  his  upturned  arm.  He  could 
get  no  nearer  to  piety  than  that. 

It  was  a  long  prayer,  full  of  windy  sentences, 
and  it  included  clauses  of  appeal  in  behalf  of  each 
member  of  the  household,  and  ended  in  a  wide,  gen- 
eral appeal  for  all  "Thy  people";  and  when  it  was 
finished,  Henry  and  his  wife  said,  "Amen"  very  fer- 
vently, and  then  the  minister,  after  a  pause  of  a  few 
seconds,  said  "Amen"  with  equal  fervor. 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  minister,  as  the  others 
scrambled  to  their  feet,  "tell  us  all  about  yourself, 
Mr.  Martin!" 

Jane  Mahaffy  managed  to  whisper  to  her  husband 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  153 

a  remark  about  Martha.  "She  never  knelt  down 
when  the  minister  prayed,"  she  said.  "I  peeped  at 
her  between  my  fingers !" 

"Dear,  dear !"  her  husband  said,  wagging  his  head 
in  disapproval.  "I  think  slie  might  have  closed  her 
eyes  anyway !" 

"There's  nothin'  to  tell,  sir!"  James  replied  to 
the  minister.  "I've  been  away,  an'  I've  come  home 
again.     That's  all!" 

Mr.  Haveron  smiled  beneficently  at  James.  "Ah, 
Mr.  Martin,"  he  said,  "we  know  you've  been  away, 
but  where  have  you  been?  You  know  it  wasn't  just 
a  day  you  were  away,  or  a  week.  It  was — how  long 
was  it,  Mrs.  MahafFy?" 

"Sixteen  years,  Mr.  Haveron !"  said  Jane 
Mahaffy. 

"Aye.  That's  it.  You  told  me  in  the  vestry  this 
mornin',  I  remember.  Sixteen  years  !  Yes  I  That's 
a  long  while,  Mr.  Martin,  for  a  man  to  be  away  from 
his  wife  and  family.  I  daresay  you  had  some  good 
reason  for  not  returning  to  your  home  before  this !" 
He  waited  for  James  to  reply,  but  James  did  not 
answer. 

Mrs.  Martin  nyoved  a  little  nearer  to  the  center 
of  the  room,  and  stood  for  a  while  looking  at  the 
minister  and  her  husband,  and  then  at  her  brother 
and  his  wife. 

"Mr.  Haveron,"  she  said,  "what  are  you  here 
for?" 

The  minister  sat  tip  in  his  chair.  "What  am  I 
here  for.''"  he  said. 

"Aye.  Did  Henry  an'  Jane  bring  you  here  to  be 
askin'  a  wheen  of  questions,  because  if  that's  what 


154  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

you've  conic  for,  you  can  go  back  the  same  road 
you  come!    ..." 

There  was  real  indignation  in  Henry  Mahaffy's 
voice  when  he  got  up  quickly  from  his  seat,  and 
said  to  Mrs.  Martin,  "Martha,  woman,  you're  for- 
gettin'  yourself  althegether.  Do  you  not  know  who 
it  is  you're  talkin'  to.'"' 

Mrs.  Martin  waved  to  him  to  sit  down  again. 
"I  know  rightly,"  she  answered.  "If  the  minister's 
come  here  for  the  sake  of  friendship  to  see  James, 
I'm  glad  to  see  him,  but  if  he's  just  come  because 
you  an'  Jane — aye,  you  Jane ! — have  set  him  on  to 
cross-questionin'  him,  he's  not  welcome,  an'  you're 
not  welcome  neither,  the  pair  of  you !" 

The  minister  stood  up  and  glanced  about  him  in 
an  awkward  maimer.  "'I  must  say,"  he  said,  "this 
is  not  the  sort  of  reception  I  expected,  nor  is  it  the 
kind  I'm  accustomed  to!" 

Mrs.  Mahaffy  tossed  her  head  and  declared  her 
hope  that  he  was  not  so  treated  in  other  houses. 
In  her  opinion  it  was  nothing  short  of  a  shame  and 
a  scandal  that  a  good  man  had  been  affronted  in 
the  way  in  which  Mr,  HaA'eron  had  been  affronted 
by  Martha. 

"An'  sorry  I  am,"  she  concluded,  "to  have  to 
say  the  like  about  my  own,  though  we're  not  blood- 
related,  but  only  by  marriage !" 

"I'm  surprised  at  you,  Martha !"  exclaimed  Henry 
Mahaffy,  "I'm  more  nor  surprised  at  you  for  goin' 
on  the  way  you've  just  done!"  He  turned  and  ad- 
dressed the  minister.  "I  can't  apologize  to  you 
enough,  Mr.  Haveron,  for  the  poor  reception  you've 
had  in  this  house,  but  you  know  well  it's  not  the 
reception  you  would  have  got  from  me  or  my  wife. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  155 

Mj  sister  here  was  always  a  headstrong  woman, 
and  her  own  da  on  his  deathbed  wouldn't  be  recon- 
ciled to  her !    .    .    . " 

"You  can  get  out  of  this  house  as  quick  as  you 
like,  Henry  Mahaffy !"  said  James  Martin,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair.     "You're  not  wanted  here!" 

The  minister  interposed  between  eJames  and  the 
angry  Henrj-  Mahaffy.  He  held  up  his  hand  as  if 
he  were  pronouncing  a  blessing,  and  as  he  did  so, 
his  india-rubber  cuffs  shot  out  of  his  sleeves  so 
that  they  almost  enveloped  his  hands.  "Now, 
now,"  he  said  in  a  modulating  voice,  "this  is  very 
unseemly  talk  for  brothers  to  be  indulging  in. 
Quieten  yourself  down,  Henry,  and  leave  me  to 
do  the  talking!"  He  motioned  to  Mahaffy  to 
reseat  himself,  and  Henry  did  so,  scowling  hard. 
"Now,  Mr.  Martin,"  said  the  minister,  addressing 
James,  "I'll  not  deny  that  I  come  here  the  day 
to  find  out  what  your  intentions  are  about  your 
life  among  us,  and  what  you  have  been  doing 
since  you  went  away.  It's  a  duty  I  owe  to  the 
Almighty!    ..." 

"Your  duty,  Mr.  Haveron,"  Mrs.  Martin  inter- 
rupted, "is  to  mind  your  own  business !" 

Mr.  Haveron  stiffened  when  he  heard  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin's voice,  and  he  turned  to  her  with  solemn  manner, 
and  said,  "My  duty,  Mrs.  Martin,  is  to  One  Above, 
and  I  don't  need  any  instruction  in  it  from  anyone 
on  earth.  I  have  a  purpose  in  coming  here  to-day. 
Your  brother  and  sister  have  told  me  of  some  of 
the  events  of  your  husband's  life  before  he  went 
away !    .     .     . " 

Mrs.  Martin's  face  flushed,  and  then  she  went 
swiftly   to  her   brother   and   stood   so   close   to   him 


15C  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

that  he  became  alarmed  and  ahnost  fell  off  his  seat 
in  his  endeavor  to  get  away  from  her. 

"If  you  strike  me !  .  .  . "  he  began,  when  she 
interrupted  him. 

"Strike  you,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  wouldn't  lay  a 
finger  on  you,  you  ould  clatterbash  j^ou !  How  dare 
you  go  about  spreadin'  stories.  You  an'  Jane 
is  a  couple  of  backbiters,  that's  what  you  are.  I 
might  'a'  knowed  you  wouldn't  be  content  to  be 
sittin'  still  like  dacent  people,  but  would  have  to 
be  runnin'  roun'  tellin'  tales  in  this  place  an'  in 
that!    ..." 

"Mind  yourself,  Martha  Martin !"  said  Mrs.  Ma- 
hafFy  warningly.     "Just  mind  yourself!" 

"Mind  myself  is  it.?"  shouted  Mrs.  Martin,  now 
more  angrj'  than  before,  swinging  round  on  her 
sister-in-law.  "Is  it  you  tells  me  to  mind  myself? 
Let  you  mind  your  ownself,  Jane  Mahaffy,  for  it's 
you  that  needs  mindin'.  An'  your  man,  too !  Let 
him  mind  himself,  an'  not  be  interferin'  in  other 
people's  concerns.  If  he  was  as  anxious  about 
his  own  work  as  he  is  about  other  bodies',  he 
wouldn't  be  losin'  money  the  way  he  is,  an'  custom, 
too !  .  .  . "  She  hurt  Henry  MahafFy  where  he 
least  liked  to  be  hurt.  The  railway  development  had 
injured  his  carting  trade.  "Let  him  mind  that, 
an'  he'll  have  enough  to  do !  An'  let  you  go  an' 
mind  it  too,  an'  not  be  forever  pokin'  your  nose 
where  it's  not  wanted.  There's  people  in  this  town 
is  tired  to  death  of  the  sight  of  you  because  you're 
always  clatterin'  an'  clashin'  about  their  affairs !" 
She  paused  to  take  breath,  and  with  pausing 
she  lost  some  of  her  rage.  "It's  a  nice  thing," 
she  said  to  the  minister,  "when  a  man  of  your  callin' 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  157 

comes  into  people's  houses  with  tales  he's  heard 
from  neighbors,  an'  them  spiteful  mebbe,  an' 
makes  disturbance  among  people  never  done  him  no 
liarm." 

Mr.  Haveron  besought  her  to  calm  herself.  Noth- 
ing was  so  remote  from  his  mind  as  anj'  idea  of 
interference  in  what  did  not  concern  him ;  but  this 
matter,  he  assured  her,  did  concern  him.  The  door 
opened  while  he  was  speaking,  and  Jamesej  entered. 
He  stopped  in  the  doorway  when  he  saw  the  angry 
group  before  him.     "What's  up.'"'  he  said. 

"Tliere's  nothin'  up,"  his  ujother  replied,  "but 
your  Uncle  Henry  an'  your  Aunt  Jane's  tryin'  to 
make  a  lot !" 

"Mebbe,"  said  the  minister  in  a  conciliatory  voice, 
"you  would  rather  we  had  our  conversation  in  pri- 
vate, Mrs.  Martin.  I  sec  your  young  daughter  is 
present,  and  now  your  young  son  is  present,  too, 
and  mebbe  you  would  rather  they  didn't  hear  what 
I  have  to  say !"  He  proceeded  as  if  he  had  sud- 
denly realized  what  was  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Martin's 
outburst,  and  thoroughly  ai)proved  of  it,  and  even 
blamed  himself  for  not  having  thought  of  the  young 
girl  before.  "I  quite  understand  your  feelings,"  he 
said.  "I  ought  to  have  thought  of  this  before!" 
He  went  over  to  the  place  where  Aggie  was  seated. 
She  stood  up  as  he  approached  her,  and  he  put 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  drew  her  toward 
her  brother  on  whose  shoulder  he  placed  his  other 
hand.  "You're  a  young  pair,"  he  said,  "starting 
in  the  world,  an'  there's  some  things  that  you're 
better  witliout  knowing.  Now,  will  you  both  go 
out  for  a  walk  while  your  ma  and  me  has  our 
discussion!    ..." 


158  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

Mrs.  Martin  went  over  to  him,  and  pulled  his 
hand  off  her  children's  shoulders.  "Are  you 
orderin'  my  childer  out  of  their  own  home,"  she 
said. 

"Now,  now,  be  reasonable,  Mrs,  Martin !"  said 
tlie  minister  with  some  petulance  in  his  tone,  for 
he  was  not  used  to  being  treated  as  Mrs.  Martin  had 
treated  him. 

"Is  it  reasonable,"  she  replied,  "to  walk  into  a 
person's  house  without  let  or  leave,  an'  be  askin' 
them  questions,  an'  orderin'  their  children 
about.''    ..." 

"Martha,  woman !    .    .    . "  said  Henry. 

"Don't  talk  to  me,  Henry  Mahaffy,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Don't  talk  to  me,  do  you  hear?  I'll  not 
have  you  in  this  house  again,  you  nor  your  wife, 
after  the  way  you've  treated  me!" 

She  stopped  short,  and  there  was  a  long  silence 
in  the  room.  She  went  over  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down 
with  her  back  to  the  others  so  that  thev  could  not 
see  her  face. 

James  Martin,  who  had  laid  his  pipe  aside  on  the 
entry  of  the  minister,  took  it  up  again,  and  when 
he  had  relighted  it,  sat  quietly  in  his  chair  blow- 
ing clouds  of  smoke  around  him.  He  did  not  offer 
to  join  in  the  discussion.  He  looked  at  Aggie  and 
saw  that  she  was  agitated,  and  when  he  caught  her 
eye  he  beckoned  to  her,  and  she  came  to  him,  and 
he  made  her  sit  down  beside  him.  "Don't  be  upset, 
daughter !"  he  said  to  her  in  a  whisper. 

It  was  Jamesey  who  broke  the  big  silence.  "In 
the  name  of  God,"  he  said,  "will  you  tell  me  what 
all  the  row  is  about?"  He  crossed  the  room,  and 
stood  in  front  of  his  mother.     She  looked  up  at  him, 


MRS.  :MARTIN'S  man  159 

and  he  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  very  bright, 
and  that  her  cheeks  were  flaming.  "What's  wrong, 
ma.'"'  he  asked  of  her. 

"Nothin',  son!   .    .    ." 

"Och,  ma,  what's  the  good  of  talkin'  that 
way  !*' 

The  minister  nodded  liis  liead  in  agreement.  ''Aye, 
indeed!"  he  said,  "what  is  the  good  of  talkin'  that 
Wixj.  After  all,  the  young  people  are  old  enough 
to  heed  the  trutli,  and  it's  better  they  should  hear 
it  from  us,  nor  be  hearing  it  all  distorted  by  gossips 
in  the  town !" 

"What  truth,  Mr.  Haveron.?"  demanded 
Jamesey. 

The  minister  looked  about  the  room  as  if  he  were 
assuring  himself  that  his  congregation  were  listening 
attentively  to  what  he  had  to  say.  "Is  your  Aunt 
Esther  here.''"  he  said  decisively. 

James  Martin  ceased  to  smoke  quietly.  He  put 
his  pipe  down,  and  shouted  at  the  minister.  "What 
the  hell's  it  got  to  do  with  you  where  she  is.'"'  he 
demanded,  standing  before  the  horrified  clergyman 
with  his  face  thrust  forward  so  that  he  almost 
touched  Mr.  Haveron's  nose.  "Didn't  you  hear  my 
wife  tellin'  you  to  get  out  of  this.'*  Well,  go  on, 
then !  An'  you,  too,  the  pair  of  3'ou !"  he  added, 
turning  to  Henry  Mahaffy  and  his  wife. 

"It's  to  save  her  from  hell,  I'm  here!"  said  the 
minister. 

"Save  her  from  my  grandmother !  Who's  tryin' 
to  harm  her.?"  The  minister  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak,  but  James  evidently  thought  it  advisable  to 
silence  him,  for  he  hurriedly  went  on  with  his  re- 
marks.    "Go  on,  now,  an'  don't  let  me  have  to  be 


160  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

tellin'  you  another  time.  I'm  not  near  as  fond  of 
ministers  as  Henry  Mahaffy  there,  an'  mebbe  if  I 
lost  my  temper  I  might  do  you  an  injury  that  I'd 
be  sorry  for!" 

Jamesey  came  between  his  father  and  the  min- 
ister. "Da,"  he  said,  "mind  what  you're  doin'. 
You  can't  go  about  hittin'  people  in  this  country 
Avhatever  you  done  where  you  come  from.  What's 
all  this  bother  about.'*    ..." 

His  father  caught  him  a  sudden  blow  on  the 
chin,  and  sent  him  reeling  across  the  floor,  "Don't 
stan'  there  talkin'  to  me,  you  pup  you !"  he 
said. 

Jamesej'  fell  against  the  edge  of  a  chair,  and  for 
a  little  while  lay  stunned  on  the  floor.  There  was 
a  cut  over  his  eye,  and  the  blood  began  to  dribble 
down  his  face  on  to  his  clothes.  Aggie  sprang  up 
from  her  seat,  crying  out  to  her  mother  that  Jamesey 
was  killed,  and  Jane  MahafFy  ran  to  Martha  and 
shook  her  shoulder. 

"Look  what  your  man's  done,"  she  screamed. 
"He's  killed  your  son!    ..." 

She  got  up  from  her  place  by  the  fire,  and  turned 
slowly  round.  She  saw  her  husband  standing  be- 
fore her  in  a  crouching  attitude  with  a  horrible 
look  of  cruelty  on  his  face,  while  behind  him  stood 
the  minister,  white  with  fear.  Her  son  was  raising 
himself  from  the  floor  in  a  dazed  manner,  and  as 
he  did  so,  the  blood  dropped  from  his  face  and 
clothes  on  to  the  tiles.  For  a  few  moments  she  was 
silent  and  inactive,  as  if  she  were  paralyzed,  and 
then  she  called  quickly  to  Aggie:  "Quick,  Aggie, 
get  a  basin  of  cold  water!" 

Aggie  ran  to  do  her  bidding,  and  while  she  was 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  161 

doing  it,  her  mother  raised  Janiesey  up  from  the 
floor.     "You're  all  right,  son !"  she  said. 

"Aye,  ma!"  he  answered,  as  she  laid  him  gently 
in  the  chair. 

Aggie  returned  to  the  kitchen  with  the  cold 
water,  and  Mrs.  Martin  bathed  her  son's  face,  and 
bandaged  it.  "Go  for  the  doctor,  Aggie,  an'  don't 
be  long!  ..."  She  looked  up  as  she  spoke,  and 
seemed  to  remember  that  other  people  were  present. 
"Will  you  go  now,  if  you  please  1"  she  said 
to  the  minister,  and  to  her  brother  and  his 
wife. 

"I'm  sorry  about  Jamescy,  Mrs.  Martin!  .  .  ." 
said  the  minister,  fumbling  with  his  tall  hat. 

"Shut  the  door  quietly !"  she  interrupted. 

Mr.  Haveron  bowed  his  head,  and  was  about  to 
close  his  eyes,  when  James  Martin  turned  to  him, 
and  pointed  toward  the  door. 

"We  don't  want  no  more  prayers,"  he  said.  "Get 
out,  or  I'll  put  you  out !" 

Henry  Mahaffy  and  his  wife  went  quickly  to  the 
door  and  out  into  the  street,  and  the  minister  fol- 
lowed them. 

"I'm  not  done  with  you  yet,  my  man !"  he  said 
to  James,  as  he  went  out. 

When  he  had  gone,  James  Martin  went  back  to 
the  seat  in  which  he  had  been  sitting  when  the 
trouble  began.  "I'm  sorry  I  hit  the  lad,"  he  said, 
"but  he'd  no  call  to  be  interferin'  with  me!" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  and  he  gazed  at  her  qucs- 
tioningly  as  if  he  wondered  what  were  in  her 
mind. 

"Son  or  no  son,"  he  continued,  "I'm  not  goin'  to 
be  checked  by  him!   . 


»> 


162  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

Jamesey  made  a  movement,  but  his  mother 
stopped  him,  and  whispered  to  him  to  be  quiet. 
"Never  mind  him,  son  dear!"  she  said.  "We'll  talk 
about  him  afterward.  You  sit  still  now,  and  be 
restin*  yourself!   ..." 

"What  was  that  about  my  Aunt  Esther.?" 
Jamesey  said.  "What  did  the  minister  want  with 
her.?" 

"Och,  nothin',  son!  Don't  be  talkin'  now!  Your 
da's  sorry  he  struck  you.  It  was  temper  made  him 
do  it.  He  hadn't  the  control  of  himself — your 
Uncle  Henry  an'  Mr.  Haveron  put  him  out,  an'  he 
forgot  himself!" 

James  INIartin  came  forward  as  she  said  this, 
and  stood  by  his  son's  side.  "Aye,  Jamesey," 
he  said,  "that's  true.  I  didn't  mean  to  strike 
you !" 

"Mebbe  you  didn't!"  Jamesey  murmured,  as  he 
turned  away  from  his  father's  face.  "It's  not  the 
blow  I'm  thinkin'  of.  It's  my  Aunt  Esther.  What 
did  she  leave  the  house  for  so  sudden.?  An'  Avh}' 
did  the  minister  ask  for  her  the  way  he  did,  an'  say 
he  wanted  to  save  her  from  hell.?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know.  There's  many  a  thing  I  want  to 
hear  about.  You  bein'  away  all  this  time,  da !" 
He  turned  again  to  his  father  as  he  spoke,  "An' 
then  comin'  home  again  the  quare  way  you  did  I" 

Mrs.  Martin  put  her  arms  round  him,  and  pressed 
him  to  her.  "Be  quiet,  son,"  she  said,  "an'  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  it  myself  when  you're  better  a 
bit.  You've  the  nasty  cut  on  your  head,  an'  you're 
weak  with  the  loss  of  blood.  The  doctor'll  be  here 
ill  a  wee  while,  an'  then  you'll  go  an'  lie  down  in 
3'our  bed  an'  have  a  long  rest.     You'll  not  go  up  to 


MRS.  MARTIN'b  MA\  165 

Belfast  the  morrow  to  jour  work.  .  .  .  Listen, 
your  Aunt  Esther  wants  to  start  a  shop  in  Belfast, 
an'  she  wants  you  to  go  an'  lodge  with  her,  the  way 
you'll  be  company  for  her,  an'  she  can  look  after 
you  proper.  Now,  be  quiet,  now,  an'  don't  be  both- 
erin'  your  head  with  questions !" 

The  door  opened,  and  Aggie  entered  followed  by 
Dr.  McMeekan. 

"Here's  the  doctor,  now,  son !"  Mrs.  Martin 
said. 

"Hilloa,"  said  tlie  doctor,  "what's  the  matter 
with  you,  young  fellow !"  He  went  up  to  Jamesey 
and  examined  his  face.  "Cut  yourself,  eh?"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  "he  slipped  an' 
hurt  himself!" 

"Ah!"  said  the  doctor.  "Well,  we'll  soon  have 
him  all  right.     He  needs  a  stitch  or  two!    .    .    ." 

Aggie  stood  against  the  dresser  while  the  doctor 
looked  at  her  brother.  Her  hands  were  clasped  to- 
gether, and  slic  was  crying.  Her  father  crept  up  to 
her,  and  touched  her.  She  looked  up  at  him,  and 
then  turned  away. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  him,"  he  said.  "I 
declare  to  God,  1  didn't,  Aggie!"  He  looked 
about  him  to  see  if  the  doctor  was  listening  to  him, 
and  then,  seeing  that  he  was  occupied  with  Jamesey 
continued  to  speak  to  his  daughter.  "Don't  be 
turnin'  against  me,  Aggie,  over  the  head  of  it," 
he  pleaded.  "You're  the  only  one  in  the  house 
that's  for  me  .  .  .  that's  the  God's  truth,  Vm 
teHin'  you.  I'll  be  a  good  da  to  you,  I  will  by 
Jase!    ..." 

She  would  not  listen  to  him.     She  went  to  the  door 


164,  :\niS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

and  opened  it  and  went  out.  lie  followed  her  to 
Ihe  door,  and  watched  her.  She  walked  a  little  way, 
iuid  then  looked  round,  and  when  she  saw  him 
standing  at  the  door,  she  ran  down  the  road  to 
Millisle.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment  or  two, 
and  then,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  he  ran  after 
her. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

She  ran  swiftlj-^  up  the  road  until  she  came  to  the 
place  where  it  went  over  the  railway  line,  and  then 
she  climbed  over  a  stile  into  a  field  that  led  to  the 
sea.  She  went  across  the  field  and  let  herself  down 
on  to  the  shore  below,  slipping  and  sliding  down 
the  shingly  surface  and  catching  hold  of  the 
bent  when  it  seemed  that  she  was  likely  to  fall. 
There  was  a  large  rock,  covered  with  dry  seaweed 
and  barnacles,  laying  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  niul 
she  sat  down  on  it,  panting  with  her  effort  and  her 
grief.  She  did  not  sec  her  father  following  her, 
and  he  kept  out  of  her  sight  until  he  reached  the 
edge  of  the  field.  He  lay  flat  on  the  grass  and 
looked  over  at  his  daughter.  "Aggie !"  he  said 
softly,  "Hi,  Aggie!" 

She  started  up  from  tlie  rock  when  she  heard  his 
voice,  and  turned  to  look  at  him  Avith  frightt-ricd 
eyes.     "Oh,  da !"  she  exclaimed  fearfully. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  daughter !"  he  called  to  her. 
"I  didn't  want  to  scare  you !  .  .  . "  He  scrambled 
down  the  face  of  the  cliff  and  stood  beside  her. 
"You've  no  need  to  be  afeard  of  me,  Aggie!"  he 
said,  taking  her  hands  in  his  and  drawing  her  to 
him,  "You  know  rightly  I  wouldn't  harm  a  hair  of 
your  head.  I  lost  my  temper  over  the  minister  an' 
your  Uncle  Henry.      I  didn't  mean  to  hit  Jumesey 

165 


166  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

at  all.  I  just  didn't  know  what  I  was  doin',  an' 
I  hit  out  without  thinkin'  .  .  .  I'm  quaren  sorry, 
Aggie !" " 

She  withdrew  her  hands  from  his,  and  suddenly 
her  tears  came,  and  she  could  not  control  them. 
She  sat  down  again  on  the  rock  and  held  her  hands 
to  her  face  and  sobbed  as  if  she  were  choking.  Her 
agitation  disturbed  him,  and  he  stood  gazing  at 
her  in  a  helpless  fashion.  He  patted  her  shoulder 
and  said,  "There  now,  Aggie,  there  now!"  and 
then  feeling  that  his  comfort  was  poor,  he  turned 
away  and  shifted  about  in  a  nervous  manner. 
"Don't  be  cryin',"  he  said  to  her,  but  she  made  no 
response  to  his  appeal,  and  he  saw  that  her  grief 
must  be  expended.  He  walked  a  few  paces  away 
from  her  and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
gazing  out  over  the  Irish  Sea.  The  tide  had  fallen, 
and  the  sea  was  less  lively  than  it  had  been  in  the 
morning  when  Esther  had  set  out  for  Millisle. 
There  was  a  little  lapping  sound  of  water  running 
over  pebbles  and  sinking  out  of  sight  through  the 
sand  and  shingle,  and  the  noise  of  stones  rattling 
together  as  they  were  flung  forward  by  the  waves 
and  then  drawn  back  again  as  the  sea  fell  away 
from  the  shore.  He  glanced  about  him  and  was 
glad  to  find  that  no  one  was  in  sight.  The  sun 
was  riding  down  the  heavens,  leaving  trails  of 
golden  light  that  shot  across  the  amethystine  sky. 
The  clouds  were  like  films  of  fire,  and  while  he  gazed 
at  them,  lie  felt  that  he  was  moved  by  the  great 
quietude  and  beauty  about  him.  He  turned  away 
from  the  scene  of  loveliness  to  look  at  Aggie,  but 
she  was  still  crying  and  he  did  not  dare  to  speak 
to    her.       There    was     something    about    her,    the 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  167 

shinj  look  of  her  hair  or  the  dehcate  shape  of 
her  hands  as  she  held  them  over  her  eyes,  which 
stirred  some  emotion  of  fatherhood  in  him  and 
made  him  long  to  go  to  her  and  lift  her  up  from 
the  rock  on  which  she  sat  and  fold  her  tightly 
in  his  arms  and  kiss  her  tears  from  her  eyes.  While 
he  looked  at  her,  a  shiver  of  feeling  went  through 
him,  and  he  felt  that  he  must  cry  too.  .  .  .  Then 
he  stooped  and  picked  up  a  pehble  and  flung  it  into 
the  sea.  It  rose  up  into  the  air  and  made  a 
white  mark  against  the  sunlight,  and  then  it  fell 
with  a  dull  splash  into  the  sea.  He  picked  up  a 
round  flat  stone  and  flung  it  across  the  surface  of 
the  water  so  that  it  went  skimming  along,  striking 
the  sea  here  and  making  a  little  white  splash,  and 
leaping  clear  of  it  there,  until  its  force  was  expended 
and  it  tumbled  into  the  trough  of  a  wave.  A  big 
rock,  black  and  shining,  stood  out  of  the  sea  some 
distance  from  the  shore,  and  the  waves  broke  over 
it  so  that  it  could  not  be  seen,  and  then  fell 
away  from  it,  leaving  its  black  head  to  sparkle  in 
the  rays  of  the  sun  until  another  wave  came  curl- 
ing along,  and  rose  up  and  buried  it  in  white 
foam. 

He  took  up  a  handful  of  pebbles  and  began  to 
tlirow  them  at  the  rock  and  to  see  how  many  times 
he  could  strike  it  before  it  became  submerged.  His 
first  stone  missed  it,  and  so  did  his  second,  but  just 
as  a  wave  with  a  green  tongue  rose  to  lick  the  rock's 
head,  his  stone  bounded  on  to  it  with  a  sharp  crack, 
and  then  leaped  uji  into  the  air  and  tumbled  into 
the  water. 

"You  bit  it  that  time,  da!"  said  Aggie. 

Ho  turned  round  and  s;i\v  her  standing  watching 


168  MRS.  MARTIN'S  ]\IAN 

him.     Her  tears  had  dried,  though  her  eyes  were 
red  with  her  weeping. 

"It  was  a  good  shot  that,  da !"  she  added,  coming 
up  to  him'. 

"Aye,  it  wasn't  bad,"  he  replied,  "but  I  missed 
it  the  first  two  times.  Are  you  all  right  again, 
Aggie .?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  he  saw  that  she  was  not 
angry  with  him  any  more.  "Here,"  he  said,  "you 
come  an'  have  a  throw  at  it!"  He  handed  some 
pebbles  to  her,  and  she  threw  them  at  the  rock, 
but  so  wide  of  it,  that  they  both  fell  to  laughing 
at  her  efforts.  "Sure,  a  woman's  no  good  at  clod- 
din'  at  all !"  he  said.  "Here,  look  here !"  He  took 
up  a  stone  and  threw  it  at  the  rock,  which  it  struck 
with  a  loud  smack.  "That's  the  way  you  should 
clod,"  he  said.  "Did  you  ever  try  skimmin'  the 
water  with  a  stone,  Aggie?" 

"Och,  aye,  da,  many's  a  time,  but  sure  I  can  never 
do  it  right.     Jamesey's  the  great  lad  at  it!    .    .    . 

He  dropped  the  stones  he  held  in  his  hand,  and 
put  his  arm  round  her  waist.  "You're  not  put  out 
witli  me  any  more,  are  you?"  he  said  to  her. 

"No,  da,"  she  answered.  "I  know  you  didn't  mean 
no  harm— only  I  didn't  like  the  way  you  were  lookin' 
when  you  hit  Jamesey !" 

"What  way  was  I  lookin'?" 

She  shuffled  out  of  his  embrace  and  moved  a  few 
steps   away   from  him.      "Och,   it   doesn't   matter," 

she  said. 

"Do  you  not  want  to  tell  me?"  lie  asked,  comini,^ 

near  to  her. 

"No,  da.  .  .  .  Here,  clod  this  stone,  will  you,  at 
the  rock!    .    .    .    No,  wait  a  wee  while.     There's  a 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  169 

sea-gull  lightin'  on  it !  Och,  isn't  it  nice,  da,  the 
way  it  stan's  there  takin'  no  more  notice  of  the  sea 
nor  a  fly.  ..."  She  clapped  her  hands  at  the 
hird,  but  it  did  not  move.  "Shoosh,  bird!"  she 
shouted,  "away  with  you  or  you'll  get  wet!"  A 
wave  tumbled  over  the  rock,  and  the  sea-gull  flut- 
tered above  it  for  a  few  moments  and  then  flew  off", 
spreading  its  long  wings  out,  and  sailing  through 
the  air  in  wide  circles  until  it  disappeared  behind 
the  headland.  "I'll  play  you  who  hits  the  rock 
the  most  times,"  Aggie  said  when  the  bird  had 
gone. 

"Och,  sure,  I  can  bate  you  easy !"  he  replied. 

"Well,  you  can  give  me  a  start,  can't  you?" 

She  smiled  at  him  as  she  said  that,  and  her  smile 
was  so  winsome  that  he  had  to  take  hold  of  her 
and  fondle  her.  He  pressed  her  so  tightly  that  he 
hurt  her. 

"Och,  da,"  she  protested,  "you're  near  chokin' 
me!" 

"I'd  give  the  world  to  please  you,  Aggie,"  he  said, 
releasing  her  and  stroking  her  hair.  "I  would  that, 
daughter !" 

"Well,  give  me  a  start  of  ten,  then !"  she  replied, 
and  she  began  to  throw  stones  at  the  rock. 

He  caught  her  hand  and  held  it.  "I  want  to  talk 
to  you,  Aggie,"  he  said.  "Sit  down  a  wee  while  an' 
listen  I" 

She  threw  her  stones  away,  and  sat  down  on  the 
dry  rock,  and  waited  for  him  to  begin,  but  he  did 
not  speak  at  once.  He  lay  down  on  the  shingle  at 
her  feet  and  remained  thus,  looking  out  to  sea.  She 
tapped  his  shoulder  with  her  foot.  "Hi,  da,"  she 
said,  "Have  you  lost  your  tongue  or  what.'"' 


170  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

He  roused  himself  and  sat  up.  "Aggie,"  he  said, 
"are  you  fond  of  me !" 

"Och,  da,  of  course  I'm  fond  of  my  da!" 

"Aye,  but  are  you  fond  of  me?  I  don't  mean 
are  you  fond  of  your  da,  but  are  you  fond  of  jne?" 

"That's  a  quare  thing  to  be  askin',  da !" 

"Aye,  it  mebbe  sounds  quare,  but  sure  there's 
many  a  person  is  only  fond  of  their  da  an'  ma  be- 
cause they're  their  da  an'  ma,  an'  mebbe  if  they 
foun'  out  somcthin'  about  them  that  wasn't  nice, 
they  wouldn't  be  fond  of  them  no  more !" 

"Ah,  sure,  that  wouldn't  make  no  differs  at  all, 
da!" 

"It  might,  Aggie !"  He  paused  for  a  moment  and 
looked  intently  at  her.  "Aggie,"  he  said  softly, 
"I'm  quaren  fond  of  you,  an'  I'm  proud  of  you  too, 
daughter.  You  wouldn't  think  I'd  get  so  fond  of 
you,  an'  me  only  knowin'  you  since  yesterday,  but 
I  never  knew  I  had  a  child  like  you,  an'  I  can't 
hardly  make  out  what's  the  matter  with  me  since  I 
knew  about  you.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  go  demented  mad  if 
you  were  to  turn  against  me!" 

"What  would  I  turn  against  you  for,  da.?" 

"Ah,  you  might.  People  might  be  sayin'  things 
about  me,  an'  makin'  me  out  a  bad  man.  Your 
uncle  Henry  an'  your  aunt  Jane  mebbe.    ..." 

She  leaned  forward  and  put  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  beard.  "Sure, 
don't  be  takin'  any  notice  of  her,"  she  said.  "Every 
one  knows  what  my  Aunt  Jane  is  like.  She  has  a 
quare  nasty  nature,  an'  would  say  a  thing  like  that 
just  to  annoy  you  !" 

He  took  hold  of  her  hands  and  drew  her  down 
from  the  rock  so  that  she  was  sitting  on  the  shingle 


.^IKS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  171 

beside  him.  "Ocli,  well,"  he  said,  "it  doesn't  matter 
what  she  says  so  long  as  you  don't  turn  bitter 
against  me.  I've  had  a  hard  life  of  it,  Aggie,  so  I 
have.     A  quare  hard  life!" 

"Have  you,  da.^" 

"Aye.  I  couldn't  tell  you  half  the  things  that's 
happened  to  me !    .    .    . " 

"Why  didn't  you  come  home  before  this, 
da.?" 

He  did  not  reply  to  her  question  immediately. 
He  knew  that  it  must  be  asked  some  time  and  that 
he  must  answer  it,  but  he  could  not  decide  what  to 
say.  "I  had  a  roamin'  fit  on  me,"  he  said  at  last, 
"an'  I  wanted  to  wander  the  world.  Your  ma  an' 
me  wasn't  friends  !    ..." 

She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "Do  you 
mean  my  ma  an'  you  had  a  row.'"'  she  asked. 

"Aye.  Somethin'  of  the  sort.  It  was  over  the 
head  of  nothin',  but  we  were  bitter  to  each  other, 
an'  I  went  away.  I  meant  to  come  back  soon,  but 
I  lost  my  ship  when  I  was  in  America.  I  got  into 
bother  there  an'  I  was  discharged.    ..." 

"Och,  da!" 

"An'  I  was  out  of  work  a  good  while,  an'  hadn't 
any  money,  an'  couldn't  send  any  to  your  ma,  an' 
then  I  just  felt  ashamed  of  myself,  an'  didn't  write 
nor  nothin'  an'  .  .  .  well,  that's  the  way  of  it. 
I've  had  a  hard  time  of  it  out  there,  an'  me  won- 
derin'  many's  a  time  how  your  ma  was  gettin'  on, 
an'  I  kept  on  sayin'  to  myself  I'd  write  to  her 
by  the  next  mail,  an'  I  never  done  it.  I  just 
knocked  about  America,  never  gettin'  regular 
work  or  nothin',  an'  sleepin'  out,  an'  goin'  without 
my  meals !    .    .    . " 


1T2  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Da,  dear !"  She  got  up  on  her  knees  and  em- 
braced liim,  and  he  felt  her  cheeks  wet  against  his. 

"Don't  be  cryin'  about  me,  Aggie.  Sure,  I'm  not 
worth  it,"  he  said. 

"You  are,  da,  you  are!" 

"I  was  hungry  many's  a  time!    ..." 

"An'  us  with  plenty !" 

He  laughed  and  nodded  his  head.  "Aye,  indeed," 
he  said,  "that's  the  cod  of  it.  Me  starvin'  away  in 
America,  an'  my  childer  an'  wife  well  off  here.  .  .  . 
Then  I  made  up  my  mind  to  come  home.  I  worked 
my  passage  over  on  a  cattle-boat,  Aggie.  I  can 
tell  you  it  was  rough  crossin'  in  an  ould  boat 
that  might  'a'  gone  to  the  bottom  any  minute,  an' 
the  cows  sick  with  fear  when  the  sea  rolled  over 
the  side  of  the  ship.  Many's  a  time  I  had  to  get 
up  in  the  dark  to  look  after  them  when  the  sea  was 
as  high  as  the  Cave  Hill,  an'  I  had  to  cling  on  to 
the  mast  for  fear  I'd  be  washed  overboard.  I 
was  near  dead  with  tiredness  when  we  got  to 
Liverpool !" 

"Poor  da !" 

He  told  her  what  he  had  already  told  his  wife, 
how  he  had  been  hidden  in  the  stoke-hole  of  a  cross- 
channel  steamer,  and  had  walked  from  Belfast  to 
Ball^'reagh,  losing  his  way  on  the  Hollywood 
HiUs. 

"I  was  wore  out,"  he  added,  "when  I  reached  the 
house,  an'  I  wasn't  sure  whether  it  was  it  nor 
not.  Your  ma  might  'a'  moved  to  a  different  house 
or  might  'a'  left  Ballyreagh  althegether  for  all  I 
knew !" 

The  thought  of  what  his  fate  would  have  been 
had  his  family  not  been  where  he  expected  to  find 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  173 

it  overcame  her,  and  she  did  not  speak.  She  sat 
with  misty  eyes,  holding  his  hand  and  hers  until 
the  sun's  rays  began  to  fade  out  of  the  sky,  and 
the  golden  fleeces  of  the  clouds  turned  gray  in  the 
sky,  and  the  sunlight  faded  off  the  sea  and  left  it 
cold  and  the  color  of  steel.  The  gray  clouds 
became  darker  in  tone  until  they  seemed  to  be 
black. 

"We'd  better  be  goin'  home,"  he  said  to  her,  ris- 
ing up  from  the  shingle  and  holding  out  his  hand 
to  help  her  to  rise,  too. 

"Aye,  da !"  she  replied. 

They  climbed  up  the  face  of  the  cliff  and  walked 
across  the  field  to  the  road. 

"You'll  always  be  fond  of  me,  Aggie?"  he  said, 
as  they  came  on  to  the  road. 

"Aye,  da,  indeed  I  will!" 

They  hurried  down  the  road  together.  The  day- 
light had  not  yet  gone,  and  they  could  see  passers- 
by  looking  curiously  at  them.  Aggie's  eyes  bright- 
ened as  she  heard  neighbors  say  to  each  other  loudly 
enough  to  be  heard,  "That's  Mrs.  ^Martin's  man 
over  there  with  Aggie — him  that  was  thought  to  be 
drowned !"  Once  she  was  made  angry  by  what  she 
heard.  A  woman  answered  her  companion  and 
said,  "For  dear  sake,  is  that  him?  Well,  I  don't 
think  much  of  the  look  of  him !"  Her  lips  tightened, 
and  for  a  moment  or  two  she  thought  wildly 
of  running  after  her  father's  detractor.  She  had  a 
notion  of  beating  her  until  she  howled  for  pity 
and  confessed  her  error.  .  .  .  She  restrained  her 
anger,  and  said  to  herself  that  the  woman  was 
ignorant,  anyway,  and  then  she  began  to  cast  about 
in    her    mind    for    some    discreditable    thing    to    re- 


174  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

member  of  her.  .  .  .  She  pressed  her  father's 
arm  gently,  and  hoped  that  he  had  not  heard 
what  had  been  said.  She  looked  sideways  at  him 
to  see  the  expression  on  his  face,  but  if  he 
had  heard,  he  showed  no  sign  of  having  done 
so,  and  she  imagined  that  he  had  not,  and  was 
comforted. 

As  they  came  down  the  steep  part  of  the  road, 
they  met  an  old  man  who  stopped  them  and  shook 
hands  heartily  with  James. 

"It's  Aiidra'  Macalister,  da!"  Aggie  said  to  her 
father. 

"Och,  aye,  I  mind  him  rightly,"  he  answered. 
"How' re  you,  sir!" 

The  old  man  did  not  hear  his  inquiry.  "Sure, 
it's  right  an'  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again,"  he  said. 
"Right  an'  glad  I  am!"  He  turned  to  Aggie  and 
held  out  a  trembling  hand  to  her.  "I  mind  your 
da,  well,  daughter,"  he  said,  "when  you  weren't 
thought  of  at  all.  Aye,  I  do  that.  Right  an'  well 
I  do.  He  was  a  big  strappin'  fella,  then  .  .  . 
but  sure,  it's  troublesome  times  he' s  come  back 
to!" 

"How's  that,  Andra'.'"'  James  inquired  in- 
dulgently. 

"Ah,  now,  you'll  know  all  about  it  in  a  wee  while. 
It's  a  troublesome  time  surely.  Aye !  Didn't  you 
hear  about  the  Home  Rule  Bill  where  you  were?  Ah, 
man-a-dear,  that's  the  great  trouble  to  the  country. 
It's  awful,  so  it  is !"  He  let  a  great  sigh  out  of 
him  as  he  said  this. 

"Them  Cuthliks  havin'  the  upper  ban'  of  good 
Prodcsan.s !  Ah,  man,  James  INIartin,  that's  terrible ! 
All,  it  is!     It's  a  good  job  I'm  as   ould  as  I   am, 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  175 

an'  '11  soon  be  out  of  all  this.  It  is  indeed !  Aye ! 
I  couldn't  thole  to  live  in  it.  The  priests'll  be  drivin' 
the  people  to  Mass  every  Sunday.  They  will  for 
certain.  An'  be  makin'  them  say  their  prayers  to 
the  Virgin  Mary.  That's  what  they'll  be  doin' ! 
But  I'm  right  an'  glad  to  see  you  all  the  same, 
James  Martin.     I  am,  indeed  !" 

"It's  nice  an'  kind  of  you  to  say  that,  Andra' ! 
Isn't  it,  Aggie.''"  James  Martin  said,  turning  to  his 
daughter. 

"Aye,  it  is,  da.  He's  the  right  ould  fella,  Andra' 
is !"  she  answered. 

The  old  man  mumbled  for  a  moment.  "Aye,"  he 
said.  "She's  a  brave  lump  of  a  girl,  that,  you  have 
James  Martin.  Aye !  But  I'm  ould,  daughter, 
that's  what  I  am.  If  I  was  young  again  it  'ud  be 
different,  I'm  tcllin'  you.  The  young  lads  nowa- 
days doesn't  think  nothin'  of  Home  Rule.  Not  a 
one  of  them  cares  a  thrush's  mick  about  it.  That's 
the  truth  I'm  tellin'  you,  as  sure  as  you're  stan'in' 
there.  It's  despcrt,  it  is  !  despert !  an'  I  don't  know 
what  to  think  of  it  all.  I'm  ould,  an'  I'm  not  near 
myself.  .  .  .  I'm  right  an'  glad  to  see  you  lookin' 
so  hearty  on  it,  an'  I  hope  you'll  always  have  your 
health,  but  I  wisli  the  times  wasn't  so  troublesome. 
I  do  in  sang!" 

"Och,  they're  not  so  bad,  Andra' !"  said  Aggie  to 
console  him. 

"Ah,  daughter,  they  are!  They  are,  indeed.  It's 
the  poor  home-comin'  for  your  da  to  be  made  turn 
a  Cathlik  by  Home  Rulers,  an'  him  havin'  to  bless 
himself  with  Holy  Water,  an'  say  his  prayers  to 
the  \'irgin  Mary,  an'  mebbe  kissin'  the  Pope's  toe 
tlie    WRV    mild    Gladstone    done.       He    did,    indeed, 


176  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

daughter!  I  saw  it  one  time  myself  on  a  picter. 
Right  down  on  his  bended  knees  he  was,  kissin'  the 
ould  Pope's  toe.  .  ,  .  Ah,  well,  I'll  not  be  keepin' 
you  no  longer  from  your  tay.  I'm  right  an'  glad 
to  see  you  whatever  the  times  is  like,  an'  I  hope 
you'll  have  your  health.  .  .  .  Good-night  to  you, 
daughter,  an'  tell  your  da !" 

He  stumped  away  without  finishing  his  sentence, 
a  frail  old  fellow,  cherishing  ancient  rages  in  his 
narrow  mind.  He  tottered  along  until  he  reached 
a  corner  where  a  light  wind  blew  about  him,  and 
held  him  so  that  he  could  not  move.  They  stood 
and  watched  him  as  he  tried  to  force  his  way 
against  the  wind,  and  they  saw  him,  when  it  had 
blown  past  him,  walking  like  a  child  that  is  learning 
to  stand  upon  its  legs,  half-running,  half-tumbling 
down  the  road. 

"He'll  be  blamin'  the  Pope  for  that,"  said  James 
Martin,  as  they  resumed  their  walk. 

"Och,  poor  ould  lad,'"  exclaimed  Aggie,  "he's  away 
in  the  mind !" 

"I  thought  he  was  by  the  way  he  was  talkin'  .  .  . 
Your  ma'll  be  wonderin'  where  we  are,  an'  we'll  be 
late  for  our  tay !" 

"Ah,  sure  that  doesn't  matter,  da!"  Aggie  an- 
swered, pressing  his  arm  and  snuggling  up  to  him. 


CHAPTER   XV 

The  injury  to  Jamesey's  head  was  less  severe  than 
had  at  first  been  imagined,  but  he  did  not  go  to 
Belfast  on  Monday.  On  Sunday  night,  the  Reverend 
William  Haveron,  accompanied  again  by  Henry 
MahafFy  and  his  wife,  had  returned  to  the  house  to 
inquire  about  Esther.  They  went  away  discomfited 
when  they  were  told  that  Esther  had  quitted  her 
sister's  home  before  they  had  paid  their  first  visit. 
Jane  MahafFy  laughed  when  she  heard  that  Esther 
had  gone,  and  she  turned  to  the  minister  and  said 
she  was  glad  he  was  to  be  spared  the  misery  of 
saving  her  from  herself.  "She's  took  my  words 
to  heart,"  she  added.  "When  I  heard  that 
James  was  comin'  home  again,  I  bid  her  look  after 
herself,  an'  not  be  bringin'  disgrace  on  her  family 
again !" 

When  she  had  said  that,  Mrs.  Martin  requested 
her  to  go  away  immediately.  "I  don't  want  to 
say  nothin'  hard  to  you,  Jane,"  she  said,  "though 
dear  knows  you  make  it  difficult  to  keep  a  sweet 
tongue !  Just  go  now,  an'  don't  be  comin'  here 
again  like  a  good  woman.  You  can  do  your  clash- 
baggin'  somewhere  else — it  doesn't  matter  to  me 
where  you  do  it,  so  long  as  you  don't  come  in  my 
light.  It's  a  pity  of  you,  an'  I'm  sore  an'  sorry, 
for   you,   but   I   can't   be    always   mindin'   the   pity 

177 


178  MRS.  MARTIN'S  :\IAX 

it   is    of   you,    an'    I    wouldn't    like    to    forget    my- 
self!   .    .  '." 

"Well,  you've  a  good  nerve  on  you,  Martha!" 
Jane  MahafFy  said  as  she  went  out  of  the  house, 
following  her  husband  and  the  minister,  "but  mebbe 
you've  need  of  it,  for  your  man,  by  the  look  of  him'll 
not  be  much  comfort  to  you,  an'  if  it's  not  Esther 
this  time,  it'll  likely  be  some  one  else !" 

Jamesey  found  it  difficult  to  like  his  father,  who 
had  now  been  at  home  for  a  week.  Hitherto  Jamesey 
had  been  the  man  of  the  family,  receiving  the  devo- 
tion of  his  sister  and  his  Aunt  Esther  and  also, 
though  it  was  not  so  freely  demonstrated,  of  his 
mother.  He  resented  his  deposition  from  his  proud 
place  as  the  man  in  the  house.  His  father  had  the 
chief  seat  now  at  the  table  and  was  the  first  to  be 
served  with  food.  Aggie  became  more  and  more 
attached  to  him;  she  continually  talked  of  her  da. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Martin  had  taken  him  to  Mick  McKie, 
the  tailor,  and  had  had  him  rigged  out  in  new  clothes. 
.  .  .  If  Jamesey  had  been  asked  whether  or  not 
he  was  jealous  of  his  father,  he  would  have  said  he 
was  not,  and  would  have  believed  it.  Why  indeed, 
should  he  mind  his  father  being  clad  in  a  decent  suit, 
or  Aggie  offering  her  devotion  to  him.''  But  .  .  . 
and  then  his  Aunt  Esther  had  mysteriously  gone 
away  from  the  house  the  very  next  morning  after 
his  father's  return  to  it.  Why  had  she  gone?  Why 
were  his  Uncle  Henry  and  his  Aunt  Jane  and  the 
minister  making  inquiries  about  her.'^  What  had  she 
done  that  they  should  try  to  harass  her  so.?  Where, 
too,  had  his  father  been  all  the  time.''  Why  had  he 
remained  away  from  home  so  long.-^ 

"It's   a   quare   set-out,   whatever   it   is!"   he   said 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  179 

to  himself,  as  he  ruminated  on  the  subject.  "I  wish 
he'd  stayed  where  he  was !" 

He  has  asked  his  mother  what  his  father  intended 
to  do,  now  that  he  was  at  home,  but  his  mother  had 
put  him  off  by  telling  him  that  he  must  give  his 
father  time  to  look  about  him.  "He's  not  rightly 
settled  yet !"  she  said.  "It'll  take  a  wee  while  to 
get  used  to  things !" 

"I  believe  he  left  her !"  he  said  to  himself.  "I 
believe  that's  what  he  done.  It  couldn't  be  nothin' 
else,  only  she'll  not  admit  it.  I  don't  like  the  look 
of  him,  nor  the  way  he  sits  there  smokin'  his  pipe, 
an'  not  doin'  a  ban's  turn,  like  a  gentleman,  an' 
Aggie  an'  m^'  ma  waitin'  on  him !  If  I  was  to  be 
livin'  here,  I'd  have  a  quare  ould  row  with  him,  so 
I  would.     I  wisii  I  could  see  my  Aunt  Esther !  .   .   ." 

He  resolved  that  he  would  go  over  and  see  his 
aunt  at  once.  "I'll  ask  her  about  my  da  when  I  see 
her,"  he  said. 

He  dressed  himself  for  the  road,  and  told  his 
mother  that  he  was  going  to  see  his  Aunt  Esther 
at  Millisle. 

"Aye,  son,  do,"  she  replied.  "An'  you  can  talk 
to  her  about  scttin'  up  for  herself  in  Belfast,  an' 
you  lodgin'  with  her.  Tell  her  I  was  askin'  after 
her !" 

"Yes,  ma !" 

"An'  don't  bo  tirin'  yourself  out!" 

"No.     Where's  my  da.?" 

"He's  out  a  walk  somewhere.  Aggie's  down  at  the 
shop  by  herself.  When  I've  got  the  dinner  cleared 
up,  I'll  go  down  there,  too,  so  if  you're  not  late, 
you'd  better  come  there  instead  of  here  when  you 
come  back !" 


180  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

He  kissed  her  and  went  out. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  reached  Millisle  and  the 
Gathers'  house.  Mr.  Gather  was  sitting  at  the  door, 
hammering  leather,  when  Jamesey  came  up  to  the 
house,  and  greeted  him. 

"Och,  Jamesej,  is  that  you.'"'  he  said.  "Are  you 
come  to  see  your  aunt.^" 

"Aye,  I  am,  Mr.  Gather.     Is  she  in.?" 

"She's  somewhere  about.  I'll  just  give  her  a  call!" 
He  shouted  into  the  cottage,  "Hi,  Esther,  you're 
wanted !"  and  then  returned  to  his  seat.  "This  is 
great  news  about  your  da,"  he  said,  "an'  how  is 
he  at  all.?" 

"Ah,  he's  rightly !" 

"That's  good !  That's  good !  You'll  be  right  an' 
glad  to  see  him,  I  suppose.?" 

"Aye,  I  daresay !" 

Esther  came  to  the  door  as  he  spoke.  "It's  you, 
Jamesey !"  she  said.  She  saw  the  cut  on  his  fore- 
head. "Oh,  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  did  you  get 
that.?" 

"I  fell,"  he  replied. 

"Were  you  much  hurted.?" 

"Ah  no !" 

Mr.  Gather  looked  up  at  him  as  he  said  this.  "I  was 
wonderin'  myself  how  you  got  it,"  he  said,  "only  I 
didn't  like  to  ask  for  fear  you  mightn't  want  to  tell 


me." 


"Ah,  sure  it's  nothin'  at  all,"  Jamesey  exclaimed. 
"Are  you  busy.  Aunt  Esther.?  I  wanted  to  have 
a  bit  of  a  crack  with  you !" 

"I'm  not  busy  at  all,  Jamesey.  Will  we  go  down 
to  the  shore  for  a  while.?" 

"Aye,  if  you  like !" 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  181 

She  took  off  her  apron,  and  tidied  herself  to  go 
out  with  him.  "I'll  not  be  long,  Mr.  Gather!" 
she  said.  "Will  you  tell  Maggie  when  she  comes 
back.?" 

"Right  you  are,"  Mr.  Gather  answered.  "You'd 
better  be  bringin'  Jamesey  back  to  his  tay  with 
us!" 

"Ah,  I  couldn't  trouble  you,  ]Mr.  Gather ;  thank 
you  all  the  same !"  Jamesey  said. 

"It's  no  trouble  at  all,  Jamesey,  to  be  givin'  a 
person  a  cup  of  tay  an'  a  bite  to  ate !  You'll  come 
back  now  when  you're  ready !  An'  mebbe  I'll  have 
a  surprise  for  you  when  you  do  come !" 

"What  sort  of  a  surprise,  Mr.  Gather.'"' 

"Ah,  now,  a  surprise  that'll  please  you.  There's 
been  some  one  askin'  after  you,  an'  quaren  disap- 
pointed she  was  when  she  didn't  see  you  Sunday !" 

"Och,  her !"  Jamesey  said.  His  voice  indicated 
that  he  had  lost  interest  in  tlie  girl  on  whom  he  had 
said  he  was  doting.  "Is  she  stoppin'  with  you?" 
he  added. 

"No,  she's  not  stoppin'  with  us.  She's  stoppin' 
with  Mrs.  McKittrick  at  the  end  of  the  long 
field.  I  thought  you  were  quarely  taken  with  her, 
Jamesey .'"' 

"So  I  was,  but  I'm  not  thinkin'  of  her  this  minute. 
I'll  see  you  later,"  he  said,  as  he  strolled  off  with 
his  aunt. 

She  thought  to  herself  how  like  his  father  he  was. 
James  Martin  had  been  ofF-hand  too  in  his  treatment 
of  women.  She  wondered  whether  Jamesey  would 
ever  treat  a  girl  as  his  father  had  treated  her.  "How 
is  all  at  home,  Jamesey?"  she  said. 


182  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"They're  brave  an'  rightly,"  he  answered.  "My 
ma  was  askin'  after  you." 

"Was  she,  Jamesey.'*" 

"Aye !" 

They  did  not  speak  again  until  they  reached  the 
shoi'e,  and  then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  her 
project  to  go  to  Belfast. 

"I'd  like  it  quarcn  well,  Aunt  Esther !"  he  said, 
"if  you  were  to  come  up  to  the  town.  There's  plenty 
of  places  where  you  could  do  well  for  yourself, 
an'  I  could  always  lend  you  a  hand  if  you  were 
needin'  it!" 

"I'll  go  up  the  morroAV,"  she  replied,  "an'  have  a 
look  roun'  for  a  likely  place.  That  wee  girl  you 
were  talkin'  about,  Annie  Macartney,  says  there's 
a  grand  place  on  the  Albertbridge  Road  that  the 
people's  thinkin'  o'  sellin'.  It  'ud  mebbe  be  better 
for  me  to  take  a  shop  that's  started  already  nor  to  be 
openin'  a  new  one  an'  havin'  to  build  up  a  trade.  I 
daresay  they'll  want  a  lot  for  the  good-will!" 

"I  daresay !" 

He  picked  up  a  pebble  and  threw  it  carelessly 
towards  the  sea.  She  saw  that  he  was  not  listening 
to  her  very  attentively. 

"What's  in  your  mind,  Jamesey.?"  she  said. 

"I  was  thinkin'  about  my  da,"  he  replied. 

"Your  da.?" 

"Aye.  I  was  wonderin'  did  he  run  away  an'  desert 
my  ma,  or  what !" 

She,  too,  had  been  wondering  why  James  had  gone 
away.  "Och,  Jamesey,"  she  said,  "you  shouldn't 
be  thinkin'  the  like  of  that !" 

"Why  shouldn't  I?     Isn't  it  natural  to  think  it? 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  183 

A  man  doesn't  leave  his  wife  an'  childer  for  nothin', 
does  he?" 

"No." 

He  took  a  paper  packet  of  cigarettes  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  began  to  smoke  one  of  them.  "You 
smoke  too  many  of  them  things,  Jamesey,"  she  said 
to  him.  He  did  not  make  any  response  to  her  re- 
mark, but  sat  with  his  hands  chisped  round  his  knees 
and  blew  little  blue  spirals  of  smoke  up  into  the 
air. 

"That's  a  big  boat  over  there,"  his  aunt  said, 
pointing  to  the  sky-line  against  which  a  great  liner 
could  be  seen. 

He  nodded  his  head,  but  did  not  speak. 

"The  Gathers  have  been  very  kind  to  me,"  she 
continued.  "They're  nice-natured  people,  the  whole 
of  them !"  She  wondered  what  thoughts  were  in  his 
mind,  but  she  was  afraid  to  ask  him  to  tell  her, 
although  she  could  not  tell  why  she  was  afraid.  "Is 
Aggie  all  right.'"'  she  said. 

"She's  all  right !"  he  answered,  taking  the 
cigarette  from  his  lips  and  flicking  the  ash  off  the 
end  of  it. 

"How  did  you  get  that  cut.''    ..." 

"Och,  I  told  you,  didn't  I?     I  fell!" 

"What  made  you  fall.?"' 

"My  da !" 

"Your  da!  .  .  ."  She  sat  still  for  a  second  or 
two,  and  then  she  caught  hold  of  him  by  the  arm. 
"He  never  struck  you,  did  lie?" 

"Aye,  he  did,  indeed.  He  hit  me  a  welt  on  the 
jaw  an'  knocked  me  spinnin'  on  the  floor!" 

"But!    ..."     She  got   no   further.      She   relin- 


184  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

quished  her  hold  on  his  arm,  and  sat  back  in  her 
place,  and  cried. 

"It's  no  good  cryin',"  he  said.  "He  let  out  at 
me  without  thinkin'.  My  Uncle  Henry  put  him 
in  a  temper,  him  an'  the  minister  an'  my  Aunt 
Jane !" 

Esther  wiped  the  tears  from  her  cheek,  and  sat 
up.     "The  minister,"  she  said.    "What  minister?" 

"Mr.  Haveron!" 

"What  was  he  doin'  in  the  house?" 

"I  don't  know.     He  come  to  find  out  where  you 


were." 


"Me !" 

"Aye!" 

She  thought  for  a  while.  Her  tears  ceased  to 
flow,  and  her  mind  began  to  work  quickly.  "What 
were  they  wantin'  with  me.^"  she  asked. 

"They  never  said !" 

She  sighed  with  relief. 

"What  were  they  wantin'.  Aunt  Esther?"  Jamesey 
asked  her,  turning  to  her  suddenly. 

"How  would  I  know.?" 

"They  were  sayin'  quare  things  about  you !  .    .    . " 

She  made  a  movement  of  alarm  when  she  heard 
him  say  this.  "What  things  were  they  sayin'?"  she 
asked  quickly. 

"It  was  my  Aunt  Jane !    .    .    . " 

"Och,  sure,  you  wouldn't  take  any  notice  of  what 
she  would  be  sayin',  Jamesey!" 

"She  said  she  hoped  there  wouldn't  be  any  more 
bother  between  you  an'  my  da!" 

"She  said  that,  did  she?" 

"Aye.  She  brought  the  minister  with  her  to  talk 
to  you." 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  185 

"Did  your  ma  say  anything?" 

"She  ordered  her  out  of  the  house !" 

Esther  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands.  "That 
was  right,"  she  said.  "That  was  the  way  to  treat 
the  ould  terge !  Your  ma  done  right,  Jamesey  I 
What  did  your  da  say.^" 

"He  was  losin'  his  temper  with  them.  The  min- 
ister said  he'd  come  to  save  you  from  hell,  an'  my 
da  was  goin'  to  strike  him,  an'  I  come  between  them, 
an'  toul'  him  he  should  mind  what  he  was  doin', 
an'  with  that  he  turned  roun'  sudden  an'  caught 
me  a  coup  on  the  face  that  sent  me  rowlin'  on  the 
floor!    ..." 

"Ah,  Jamesey,  son!"  She  caught  him  and  kissed 
him  passionately.  "It  was  a  hard  thing  to  be  doin', 
the  like  of  that,  to  his  own  son  !" 

"If  I  hadn't  been  near  stunned,  I'd  'a*  hit  him 
back,  an'  I  wouldn't  like  to  think  I  done  the  like 
of  that  to  my  own  da !" 

"No,  son !" 

"It  was  quare  talk  that  for  the  minister  to  be 
talkin',  about  savin'  you  from  hell,  Aunt  Esther. 
What  made  him  say  it.'"' 

"Och,  he's  an  ould  footer  of  a  man,  don't  you 
know,  Jamesey?  I  wouldn't  let  on  I  hoard  him  if  I 
were  you !" 

"Had  you  an'  my  da  words  before  he  went 
away?" 

"Words?" 

"Aye,  but  sure  you  never  said  anything  about 
rows  with  him,  so  I  suppose  you  hadn't.  You 
would  near  think  from  the  way  my  Aunt  Jane 
was  hint  in'  an'  insinuatin'  that  you  an'  my 
da!    .    .     ." 


186  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve,  "What  was  that 
calhn'?"  she  said  hurriedly. 

He  listened,  "I  can't  hear  nothin',"  he  said. 
*'What  was  it  j^ou  heard?" 

"Mebbe  it  was  a  bird.  We'd  better  be  goin'  now, 
son.  It's  cold  sittin'  here  in  the  wind  off  the  sea. 
Give  me  your  hand  an'  help  me  up!" 

He  did  not  move.  "Ah,  you're  in  no  hurry  yet 
awhile,"  he  said.     "It's  not  cold  at  all !" 

"I'm  shiverin',"  she  said,  getting  on  to  her 
knees. 

"You  don't  look  cold,  Aunt  Esther !" 

"Mebbe  I  don't,  but  I  am!"  She  got  up  as  she 
spoke,  and  held  her  hand  out  to  him.  "Come  on," 
she  said. 

He  got  up  as  she  bid  him,  and  stood  beside  her. 
"Let's  go  for  a  dandher  along  the  shore,"  he  sug- 
gested. "You'll  get  warm  that  way,  an'  we  can 
talk  a  while!" 

"It's  rough  walkin'  on  the  stones,"  she  said. 

He  became  impatient  with  her.  "You  would 
think  you  were  an  ould  Jenny-Joe,"  he  said,  "the 
way  you're  goin'  on.  Sure,  the  stones'll  do  you  no 
harm,  an'  you  used  to  walkin'  on  them  many's  a 
time.      Come   on   cr   that   with   you !" 

She  realized  that  she  must  do  as  he  asked  her, 
and  she  submitted  to  his  will.  She  was  afraid  of 
what  was  in  front  of  her,  but  she  felt  that  she  must 
stand  before  it.  What  would  Jamesey  say  to  her 
when  he  learned  the  truth  .-^  Would  he  turn 
from  her  and  treat  her  as  a  bad  woman.''  Was  she 
to  lose  the  son's  love  as  well  as  the  father's.'' 
Perhaps  he  would  not  consent  to  live  with  her  in 
Belfast    when   he   learned   of  her   conduct   with   his 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  187 

father  in  the  days  before  he  had  gone  away  from 
home.  She  had  no  feeling  for  the  father  now. 
She  was  ceasing  even  to  have  hate  for  him.  But 
she  loved  Jamesey  all  the  more  because  of  the 
frightful  disaster  that  had  happened  to  her  dreams 
and  desires  about  his  father.  She  did  not  feel 
that  she  could  bear  to  have  the  boy  turn  from  her 
as  the  father  had  done  .  .  .  but  although  she 
desired  to  keep  his  love,  she  felt  that  now  she  must 
run  the  risk  of  losing  it.  Thoughts  were  in  his 
mind  that  would  never  be  quelled.  He  must  be 
told  lest  he  should  let  suspicion  grow  and  grow 
in  his  mind  until  it  became  a  blacker  thing  than 
truth.    .    .     . 

"Very  well,  Jamesey,"  she  said,  and  she  took  hold 
of  his  arm  and  walked  by  his  side. 

She  need  not  tell  all.  She  need  not  tell  him 
that  she  had  filled  her  mind  and  heart  with  long- 
ing for  his  father  from  the  day  he  went  away  until 
the  day  he  came  back.  She  need  not  tell  him 
that  had  his  father  returned  to  her  in  something 
of  the  shape  of  the  man  he  had  been  when  he  went 
away,  she  would  have  been  his  woman  again.  .  .  . 
It  was  odd  that  James  had  come  back  without 
a  thought  for  her.  Why  had  he  lost  his  love  for 
her?  Why  had  he  stayed  away  when  he  might 
have  had  her  whenever  he  wanted  her.''  He  had 
loved  her  when  he  went  away,  of  that  she  felt 
assured,  even  though  he  had  not  turned  to  wave 
farewell  to  her  that  morning  when  she  had  stood 
at  the  window  and  watched  him  carry  his  bundle 
up  the  street  as  he  went  to  the  railway  station. 
.  .  .  Some  living  thing  stirred  in  her  mind,  some- 
thing came  to  life  at  that  moment  in  her  mind,  and 


188  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

moved  .  .  .  and  suddenly  she  understood  that 
James  had  ceased  to  love  her  before  he  set  his  foot 
on  the  ship  that  took  him  away  sixteen  years  ago. 
Now,  indeed,  was  she  a  lonely  woman,  deprived  of 
the  consolation  of  memory.  She  had  spent  long 
years  waiting  in  hope  for  a  man  who  had  vanished 
out  of  the  world — for  this  James  was  not  that 
James ;  and  she  had  spent  those  long  years  in 
loving  a  man  who  had  lost  his  love  for  her.  He 
had  not  turned  to  throw  a  caress  to  her  that  day 
because  he  had  ceased  to  desire  her  caresses.  He 
had  had  his  time  with  her,  and  was  satisfied :  he 
had  no  wish  for  more  of  her  company.  .  .  .  God 
is  hard  on  them  that  offend  Him.  She  felt  that 
He  had  punished  her  too  severely.  Indeed,  she  had 
acted  abominably  and  had  been  prepared  to  act 
still  more  abominably — paying  for  love  with  wrong, 
offering  treachery  for  trust,  returning  evil  for  kind- 
ness ;  but  however  black  her  thoughts  had  been  to 
Martha,  this  penalty  she  now  had  to  pay  was  too 
great.  If  Martha  had  been  injured,  Martha  was 
now  revenged.  ...  It  seemed  to  her  at  that  mo- 
ment that  she  had  walked  suddenly  into  a  place  of 
desolation,  that  she  was  shut  away  from  sunlight 
and  starlight  and  the  round  radiance  of  the  moon ; 
that  in  this  dreadful  region  of  lost  illusions,  the 
enlivening  tang  of  the  sea  and  the  hearty  buffet  of 
the  wind  and  the  lovely  smell  of  earth  and  ocean  and 
burning  things  on  soil  were  changed  to  a  horrible 
air  of  seclusion  and  death.  She  knew  that  Jamesey 
was  somewhere  near  her,  but  she  could  not  see  him; 
she  knew  that  overhead  there  were  birds  flying, 
whirling  and  diving  and  spinning  up  and  down,  and 
calling  to  each  other  in  ecstasy — but  she  could  not 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  180 

see  them;  she  knew  that  she  was  stumbling  over 
stones  on  the  shore,  and  that  the  waves  were  running 
in  and  out  among  the  rocks,  lifting  the  yellow  sea- 
weed in  a  soft  heaving  motion  or  pitching  it  violently 
aside,  and  then  letting  it  fall,  wet  and  dripping, 
on  the  rocks — but  she  could  not  see  them.  The 
world  was  near  her — but  a  great  screen  hid  it  from 
her  eyes.    .    .    . 

She  put  out  her  hands  and  tried  to  catch  at 
something,  but  it  slipped  from  her  grasp.  She 
called  out  " Jamescy,  Jamesey !"  and  she  heard 
him  saying,  "What  ails  you,  Aunt  Esther.?  Are 
you  sick  or  what.'"'  and  then  she  fell  and  fell  and 
fell.    .    .    . 

"I'm  all  right,  son !"  she  said  when  she  came  back 
to  the  world.  She  was  lying  on  the  shingle  with 
her  back  against  a  rock,  and  Jamesey  was  looking 
anxiously  at  her.  "I'm  all  riglit,  Jamesey,  son!" 
she  said,  smiling  at  him  and  patting  his  hand.  "You 
needn't  get  afeard  about  me !" 

"You  just  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,"  he  said, 
"and  shouted  to  me  although  I  was  standin'  beside 
you,  an'  then  you  tumbled  down  in  a  heap,  an'  my 
heart  was  in  my  mouth  for  I  daren't  leave  you,  an' 
no  one  come  next  or  near  us!    .    .    ." 

"Och,  son!" 

"What  ailed  you  at  all?  Were  you  feelin'  bad 
or  what.=*" 

She  nodded  her  head,  "Aye,  Jamesey,"  she  said, 
"I  was  feelin'  bad — quaren  bad !  You  needn't 
be  upsettin'  yourself,  but !  I'm  all  right  again ! 
Sit  down  here  beside  me  til  I  tell  you  some- 
thin'  !" 

She   moved    the    [)ebbles    away    so    that   he    could 


190  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

sit  on  sand,  and  pulled  him  down  beside  her.  She 
took  his  hand  in  hers  and  drew  him  to  her  so  that 
his  head  rested  on  her  shoulder.  "Jamesey,  son," 
she  said,  "You  know  the  way  I  love  you,  don't 
you.?" 

"Aye,  Aunt  Esther,"  he  replied,  "I  do,  an'  I  love 
vou,  too !" 

"Do  you,  son.?" 

"You  know  rightly  I  do,  don't  you.?" 

"Aye,  I  know  you  do.  I've  loved  you  ever  since 
you  were  born,  Jamesey.  I  nursed  you  when  you 
were  a  wean,  an'  took  care  of  you  when  your  ma 
was  havin'  your  sister  Esther  that  died  when  she 
was  a  child,  an'  took  care  of  you  when  she  was  havin' 
Aggie,  an'  loved  you  every  minute  of  your  life. 
I  was  more  proud  of  you  nor  if  j^ou  were  my  own 
child!" 

"I  know  you  were,  Aunt  Esther !" 

"An'  I  love  you  this  minute,  Jamesey,  more 
nor  I  ever  loved  you,  but  mebbe  when  you  hear 
what  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  you'll  never  love  me 
again !" 

"Sure,  I  couldn't  help  lovin'  3'ou!    ..." 

"There's  things  makes  love  into  hate  in  a  sudden, 
Jamesey,  an'  it  doesn't  matter  how  much  you're 
carin'  for  a  person,  if  one  of  them  things  comes 
into  your  life,  it'll  destroy  all  your  love  like  a  flash 
of  lightnin',  an'  leave  your  heart  scalded  with  hate. 
An'  mebbe  it'll  be  that  way  with  you  when  you  hear 
what  I'm  goin'  to  say ;  but  if  you  never  speak  to 
me  again,  I'll  love  you,  Jamesey,  as  long  as  I  live!" 
She  put  her  arms  about  him  and  kissed  him.  "As 
long  as  ever  I  live,  Jamesey !" 

She  did  not  speak  again,  but  sat  with  her  arms 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  191 

folded  about  him,  and  her  chin  resting  on  his  head. 
He  moved  a  little,  and  said  to  her.  "What  are  you 
goin'  to  tell  me,  Aunt  Esther.'"' 

"Wait  a  wee  while,  Jamesey,"  she  said.  "I  want 
to  hold  you  like  this,  for  mcbbe  it'll  be  !    .    .    . " 

She  broke  off  sharply,  and  lie  lay  still  in  her 
arms,  wondering  what  she  had  to  say  to  him,  and 
not  suspecting  that  her  story  had  relation  to  the 
hints  and  suggestions  that  had  been  made  by  his 
Aunt  Jane  and  the  minister.  He  had  forgotten 
those  things  in  his  alarm  at  his  Aunt  Esther's 
faintness — and  this  passionate  show  of  love  for 
him  kept  them  still  out  of  his  mind.  He  watched 
the  sea  rolling  in,  and  found  himself  wondering 
at  the  clearness  of  the  waves  that  came  over  the 
tops  of  the  rocks  and  fell  on  to  the  sandy  reach 
and  then  rolled  on  slowly,  becoming  thin  and  more 
thin  until  they  sank  into  the  sand  with  a  boiling 
noise.    ... 

"Jamesey,"  he  heard  his  aunt  say  at  last,  "I  was 
your  da's  fancy  woman  before  he  went  away !" 

It  seemed  to  him  so  absurd  that  she  should  be 
saying  that,  and  he  hardly  listened.  A  great  wave 
came  dashing  up  over  the  rocks,  battering  and 
splashing  and  throwing  up  white  drops  of  shiny 
water,  and  tearing  seaweed  from  its  hold  and 
flinging  it  into  deep  pools  where  tiny  green  crabs 
scurried  away  into  the  shelter  of  a  crevice.  "That 
was  the  quare  big  wave,''  he  said. 

"Jamesey,     son,"     she     said,     "are     you     heedin' 


me.^" 


"Aye,   aunt!" 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said?    ..." 

And  then  he  knew.     He  sat  up  quickly,  and  turnrd 


192  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

so  that  he  was  resting  on  his  palms.  He  felt  a  stone 
sticking  into  his  right  hand,  and  he  shifted  his  body 
so  that  he  should  avoid  it. 

"'You  were !    .    .    . " 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  nodded  her  head. 
Some  purifying  thing  kept  her  from  lowering  her 
eyes  or  crying.  She  had  to  hold  her  head  up,  and 
look  into  his  eyes  without  flinching. 

"Aye,"  she  said,  "I  was!" 

"My  God!" 

They  remained  thus,  gazing  into  each  other's  eyes, 
and  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time.  Then  Jamesey 
rose  and  walked  away  from  her.  He  climbed  up 
on  the  rocks,  and  scrambled  over  them  until  he 
came  to  the  edge  of  the  sea.  The  waves  splashed 
over  his  feet,  but  he  did  not  heed  them.  He  stood 
on  a  patch  of  seaweed,  and  heard  a  bulb  burst 
under  his  feet.  He  kicked  a  limpet  from  the  rock, 
and  it  fell  into  the  water,  its  yellow  body  turning 
white  as  it  sank  down  into  the  long  tassels  streaming 
upward  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Esther  called  to  him,  but  he  did  not  answer.  She 
called  to  him  again,  but  still  he  did  not  reply ;  and 
then  she,  too,  climbed  up  on  to  the  rocks,  scraping 
her  hands  on  the  barnacles  so  that  they  bled,  and 
slipped  about  on  the  wet  seaweed  until  she  reached 
his  side.  A  wave  rolled  up  and  drenched  them  both 
about  the  ankles. 

"Jamesey,"  she  said,  not  daring  to  call  liim  "son," 
"come  home.  You're  drippin'  wet,  an'  you'll  get 
your  death  if  you  stan'  here  any  longer.  Come 
on  home  with  me !" 

He  did  as  she  bid  him  without  speaking.  They 
stumbled  on  the  sharp  points  of  the  rocks,  and  once 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  19S 

her  leg  slipped  on  the  seaweed  and  went  into 
a  deep  pool  in  a  hole.  He  took  hold  of  her 
hand  and  helped  her  to  climb  the  rest  of  the  way 
until  they  came  to  the  sand  and  the  shingle,  and 
then  she  jumped  down  without  assistance.  They 
went  back  the  way  they  had  come,  but  neither 
of  them  spoke.  They  passed  over  the  field  that 
divided  the  sea  from  the  road,  and  then  walked 
along  the  road  to  the  lane  which  led  to  the  Gathers' 
cottage.  A  farmer  drove  by  in  his  cart,  and  called 
"That's  a  brave  evenin' !"  to  them,  and  they  nodded 
their  heads  and  passed  on.  They  could  hear  the 
rumble  of  his  cart-wheels  and  the  squelching  sound 
of  their  boots  as  the  sea-water  oozed  out  of  them, 
and  the  distant  thump  of  the  waves  on  the  rocks 
below. 

"They'll  have  had  their  tay,"  said  Esther,  when 
they  came  to  the  lane. 

Jamesey  did  not  answer,  nor  did  lie  turn  up  the 
lane  with  her.  She  stood  still  and  watched  him 
as  he  strode  on  toward  Ballyreagh.  "Jamesey," 
she  called  after  him,  but  he  did  not  look  round. 
She  waited  for  a  while  as  if  she  hoped  that  he  would 
come  back  to  her,  but  lie  did  not  do  so,  though  she 
called  to  him  again,  and  then,  letting  a  cry  of  pain 
out  of  her,  she  ran  after  him,  and  when  she  came 
up  to  him,  she  stood  in  front  of  him  and  put  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  pulled  his  face  down 
to  her  and  kissed  him.  "Son,  son !"  she  said, 
"don't  be  goin'  away  like  that  without  a  word  to 
me !" 

He  did  not  resist  her. 

"You  know  I  love  you,  son,"  she  said,  "an'  you 
said  yourself  you  loved  me,  an'  wouldn't  let  nothin' 


194  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

come  atween  us.  I'm  nothin'  to  your  da  now!  ..." 
She  felt  a  shudder  go  through  him  at  the  mention 
of  his  father.  "Indeed  an'  'deed  I'm  not,"  she 
said,  clinging  to  him.  "You'll  not  go  awa}^  from 
me,  Jamescy,  an'  never  let  me  see  you  again.  You 
said  3'ou'd  come  an'  stop  with  me  in  Belfast,  an' 
you  will,  son,  you  will,  won't  you.'*  I'll  do  any- 
thing for  you,  only  don't  be  castin'  me  off. 
I've  suffered,  son,  for  what  I  done,  an'  .  .  ." 
Her  sobs  prevented  her  from  speaking  further. 
She  hung  on  to  him,  with  her  head  resting  on  his 
breast,  and  he  felt  her  body  shaking  with  grief. 
He  looked  down  on  her,  and  wondered  to  himself 
that  he  had  not  noticed  before  how  many  gray 
hairs  she  had.  A  great  feeling  of  pity  for  her  came 
into  his  heart,  and  he  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her 
hair. 

She  looked  up  instantly,  though  she  could  hardly 
see  him  because  of  the  tears  that  were  streaming 
from  her  eyes.  "You'll  not  turn  me  away,  son?" 
she  said  pleadingly,  and  he  kissed  her  lips,  and  then 
freed  himself  from  her  clasp. 

"I'm  all  throughother,"  he  said,  putting  her  gen- 
tly from  him.  "Give  me  time  to  think  about  it,"  he 
said. 

"Will  you  not  come  back  with  me  now.''"  she 
asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  replied,  "I  don't 
want  to  be  with  no  one  yet  a  while.  I  just  want 
to  be  by  myself.  Go  on,  you,  Aunt  Esther,  an' 
leave  me  to  myself.  It'll  be  better  for  me  to  be 
alone !" 

"You'll  not  be  broodin',  Jamesey?    ..." 

He  did  not  answer.     He  walked  along  the  road, 


MRS.  :\L\RTIN'S  :\1AN  195 

while    she    stood   there    watching   him    until   he    was 
out   of  sight.      Some   one   passed   him   on   the   road 
and   called    a  greeting  to   him,   hut   he   neither   saw 
the  friend  nor  answered  him.     The  day  was  closing 
in,   and   the   sun    moved   down   the   sky   toward   the 
rim  of  hills  in  the  west,  and  as  it  made  its  journey 
it  sent  out  great  shafts  of  light  that  shot  up  into 
the  heavens   and  down  into  the  fields  and  the   sea, 
transfusing    the    clouds    so    that    they    looked    like 
balls   of  gray  smoke  with  pink  edges,  and  causing 
the    hills    to    clothe    themselves    in    coats    of    many 
colors,  ruddy   brown  like  burnt  sienna,  golden  like 
corn,  amethyst  like  heather,  changing,  as  the  sun- 
light   shifted,    to    dark    masses    tiiat    could    not    be 
defined.     The  sea  was  green  one  moment  and  golden 
another,  and  where  the  wind  blew  there  was  a  great 
splash  of  silver,  and  the  little  crinkled  waves  looked 
like  the  ruffled  feathers  of  a  bird.     The  round,  red 
rim  of  the  sun  poised  for  a  moment  or  two  on  the 
top  of  the  hills,  making  flames  of  the   clouds,  and 
then   it   tumbled   out   of   sight,   and   the   red   clouds 
Ijccame   the   color    of   dying   embers,   and   the   pale, 
vellow    clouds    became    smoky    and    dark,    and    the 
hills   lost   their   shiny   look    and   became   black,   and 
the   night  settled  down   like  a  great   bird  over  her 
brood.     A  nightjar  rose  noisily  from  a  tree,  and  a 
curlew   flew   overhead   with    a   long,    hard    cry.      As 
Jamcsey  stumbled  past  a  house  on  the   roadside,  a 
dog  yelped  at  him,  and  a  woman  called  to  it  from 
the    dusky    porch.      He    could    see    the    lights    of    a 
house  before  him,  shining  like  little  lost  stars,  and 
h)oking  towards  the  ocean,  he  saw  the  weary  sea-birds 
floating  back  to  land. 

"Oh,  my  God,"  he  cried,  as  he  stumbled  home. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

He  had  gone  home  in  a  fury,  deterramed  to  haul 
his  father  from  the  house  and  beat  him  out  of 
the  town,  but  when  he  had  entered  the  kitchen, 
and  had  found  the  business  of  the  home  going 
quietly  on,  his  will  failed  him.  His  father 
sat  before  the  fire,  smoking  his  pipe  and  reading 
the  Belfast  Evening  Telegraph,  while  Aggie  finished 
her  supper  at  the  table  under  the  stairs.  It 
was  Aggie,  now,  who  had  care  of  the  shop,  for  his 
mother,  since  his  aunt  Esther  had  quitted  the 
house,  had  stayed  at  home  to  make  the  meals 
and  attend  to  the  home  affairs.  His  father  often 
went  down  to  the  shop  to  help  Aggie,  and  it  seemed 
that  he  might  regularly  do  so.  When  the  barrel 
of  paraffin  oil  was  empty,  and  a  new  one  had  to 
be  tapped,  James  Martin  did  it.  Until  his  home- 
coming that  had  been  Jamesey's  job  at  the  week- 
end; but  his  father  took  it  without  a  word,  and 
Aggie  liked  to  have  him  near  her.  Sometimes  a  pei*- 
son  living  in  a  big  house,  or  some  one  from  the 
Squire's  family,  would  order  goods  to  be  delivered. 
In  the  old  days,  Mrs.  Martin  had  given  two- 
pence to  a  village  boy  or  to  Johnnie-look-up-at- 
the-moon,  the  half-^vit,  to  carry  the  articles  to 
their  destination ;  but  now  James  Martin  became 
the    porter    and    errand-boy     because    Aggie    had 

196 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  197 

laughed  at  him  for  doing  nothing.  He  was  sitting 
now  at  ease  in  the  way  of  a  man  who  had  done 
his  work  and  is  content.  He  looked  up  at  Jamesej 
as  he  entered  the  house,  but  did  not  smile  or  greet 
him.  He  seemed  to  be  Indifferent  to  Jamesey. 
He  seldom  spoke  to  him  and  never  gave  a  sign  of 
affection  to  him ;  and  the  memory  of  the  blow  he 
lately  dealt  him  was  too  recent  to  make  friendship 
easy.  Mrs.  Martin  had  been  darning  socks  when 
Jamesey  entered,  but  when  she  heard  that  he 
had  not  had  his  tea,  she  put  them  aside  and  busied 
herself  preparing  a  meal  for  him.  How  had 
he  left  his  Aunt  Esther.'*  Was  she  well  in 
herself.''  Did  she  say  anything  about  going  up  to 
Belfast.? 

She  looked  rightly.  She  did  say  something  about 
going  up  to  Belfast,  but  he  didn't  listen  very  at- 
tentively— something  about  taking  a  shop  and  him 
going  and  living  with  her.  ...  Fie  saw  his  father 
listen  while  he  spoke.  Aye,  he  might  well  listen ! 
He  had  a  good  mind  to  say  something  now  .  .  . 
only  how  could  he  say  anything  when  they  were  all 
so  quiet  together?  He  would  have  to  wait  until 
he  got  a  chance  of  checking  his  father.  You 
can't  make  a  quarrel  in  a  house  where  no  one  is 
angry  but  yourself,  and  your  own  anger  has  fallen 
out  of  you  unaccountably.  He  couldn't  work 
up  a  rage  against  his  father:  he  must  wait  until 
the  flame  of  some  anger  had  kindled  in  him,  and 
then.    .     .     . 

His  mother  was  eager  that  he  should  do  what  his 
Aunt  Esther  desired  him  to  do. 

"It'll  be  company'  for  the  pair  of  you,"  she  said, 
"an'  it'll  be  better  for  you  to  be  lodgin'  with  her, 


198  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

an'  her  so  fond  of  you,  nor  to  be  lodgin'  with 
strangers !" 

He  nodded  his  head,  but  did  not  speak.  He  ate 
liis  supper  in  silence,  and  then  sat  still  in  his  chair 
thinking  over  the  things  he  had  learned  that  day 
until  his  mother  asked  him  what  his  thoughts 
were. 

"Nothin'!"  he  replied. 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  but  did  not  ask 
what  was  his  trouble.  She  associated  his  silence 
with  the  blow  he  had  had  from  his  father,  and  she 
knew  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  tr^'  and  destroy 
the  constraint  between  him  and  her  husband: 
it  must  die  naturally.  So  she  went  on  with  her 
work  of  darning,  and  let  him  sit  at  the  sup- 
per-table brooding.  But  he  did  not  brood 
for  a  long  time.  He  could  not  sit  still.  He 
wanted  to  talk  and  shout,  to  do  something  loud 
and  hard  to  keep  his  mind  still.  He  fidgeted  in 
his  chair,  and  when  he  was  tired  of  turning  this 
way  and  that,  he  got  up  and  went  across  the 
kitchen  to  the  window-seat  and  stretched  himself 
full  length  on  it;  but  he  could  not  be  easy  there 
either.  He  sat  up  again,  and  then  lay  down  a  second 
time. 

"You're  quaren  restless  the  night,  Jamesey!"  his 
mother  said  with  some  rebuke  in  her  tone.  "You'll 
disturb  your  da  readin'  the  paper !" 

Disturb  his  da!  What  did  it  matter  whether  he 
did  or  not.^  Who  was  his  da?  .  .  .  But  that  was 
to  be  the  way  of  it !  "Jamesey,  don't  be  restless 
for  fear  you  disturb  your  da!  .  .  ."  Why  had 
his  da  not  made  some  remark  so  that  he  could  answer 
it   bitterly.'*     Why   had  his   da   not  looked   up   and 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  199 

said,  "Aye,  keep  quiet,  Jamesey !"  so  that  he  could 
turn  on  him  and  say  "To  hell  er  that  with  you!"? 
.  .  .  But  his  father  did  not  even  look  up.  He 
went  on  reading  the  paper  as  if  he  had  not  heard  a 
word. 

"What  ails  you,  son.'"'  his  motlier  said,  coming 
to  his  side,  and  fondling  him.  "You're  not  sick,  arc 
you,  again.'"' 

He  got  up  from  the  seat,  and  eluded  her  embrace, 
"No,  ma,"  he  replied.  "I'm  all  right.  Don't  bother 
your  head  about  me  !" 

Aggie  had  cleared  the  plates  from  the  table,  and 
returned  to  the  kitchen  as  he  spoke.  "Aggie,"  he 
said,  "come  on  out  for  a  dandher  with  me.  We'll 
go  up  to  the  Lighthouse!    .    ,    ." 

"Ah,  Jamesey,"  she  said,  "I  can't.  Me  an'  my 
da's  goin'  to  have  a  game  of  draughts  when  he's 
done  the  paper  !    .     .    .  " 

She  would  have  come  gladly  any  time  he  had  asked 
her  in  the  days  before  his  father' s  return.  He 
was  not  to  fidget  lest  he  should  disturb  his  father 
in  his  reading  of  the  newspaper.  He  had  not  seen 
the  paper  himself  yet.  .  .  .  He  nmst  do  without 
Aggie's  company  because  his  father  needed  it.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  one  now.  His  Aunt  Esther  was  at 
Millisle — and  even  she  had  been  given  to  his  father. 
Was  he  to  have  nothing?  He  had  his  mother's 
love,  he  knew,  but  they  all  had  that  .  .  .  and  his 
father  was  now  receiving  the  little  considerations 
that  formerly  were  his.  Did  they  know  what  sort 
of  man  his  father  was?  Aggie  did  not  know,  but 
did  his  mother  know?  She  might  suspect,  .she  must 
suspect,  but  did  she  know?  If  she  knew,  how  could 
she  endure   to   have   him    in    the  house?    .     ,     .    And 


900  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

she  had  allowed  his  Aunt  Esther  to  stay 
with  her  all  these  years !  That  was  a  quare 
thing!    .    .    . 

He  went  to  bed.  "Good-night,  ma !"  he  said  sud- 
denly, and  leaning  over  her  shoulder  he  kissed  her. 
"Good-night,  Aggie !"  he  added,  nodding  his  head  to 
her,  and  then  he  went  toward  the  stairs. 

"You've  not  said  'Good-night'  to  my  da!"  Aggie 
exclaimed. 

He  went  up  the  stairs  with  a  scowl  on  his  face. 
"Good-night !"  he  said,  and  his  father,  without  look- 
ing up,  replied,  "  'Night  to  you !" 

He  stripped  himself,  and  got  into  his  bed,  where 
he  lay  a  long  time  awake.  He  began  to  feel  ashamed 
of  himself.  He  had  pelted  down  the  IMillisle  Road 
determined  to  avenge  his  mother  on  his  father, 
but  he  had  not  done  or  said  anything;  and  now  he 
was  lying  in  bed  saying  to  himself  the  things  he  had 
meant  to  say  to  his  father.  .  .  .  Anyway,  he 
would  not  have  anything  more  to  do  with  his  Aunt 
Esther.  She  could  go  and  start  her  ould  shop 
where  she  liked,  and  get  whom  she  liked  to  lodge 
with  her,  but  he  would  have  no  share  in  the  shop. 
There  would  not  be  much  of  a  home  for  him 
after  this  in  Ballyreagli.  How  could  he  continue 
to  come  here  on  Saturdays,  knowing  that  his  father 
would  be  here,  too,  and  that  Aggie  .  .  .  Aggie 
was  a  nice  one !  Leaving  him  in  the  lurch  like  that ! 
And  him  always  been  a  good  brother  to  her,  too ! 
Playing  draughts  with  her  da !  .  .  .  Damn  her 
da!  .  .  .  He'd  leave  the  lot  of  them!  He'd  be 
sorry  to  leave  his  ma,  but  if  she  kept  his  da 
on  in  the  house,  that  was  what  he  would  have  to 
do !    .    .    . 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  201 

While  he  was  brooding  thus  he  heard  his  mother's 
steps  on  the  stairs,  and  then  she  opened  his  door. 
He  lay  very  quietly,  and  did  not  answer  when  she 
said,  "Are  jou  awake,  Jamesey?"  She  came  into 
the  room,  shading  the  candlelight  from  his  eyes, 
and  bent  over  him  as  he  lay  in  bed.  He  kept  his 
eyes  closed,  and  pretended  to  be  asleep.  He  won- 
dered what  she  wanted,  and  determined  to  open  his 
eyes  and  pretend  that  he  had  suddenly  awoke,  but 
something  prevented  him  from  doing  so.  He 
breathed  heavily  and  turned  over  on  his  side  in  the 
pretense  that  he  was  turning  in  his  sleep ;  and  when 
he  had  snuggled  into  the  new  place  he  had  made  for 
himself  in  the  bed  and  was  still  again,  she  bent  over 
him  and  kissed  his  forehead  very  lightly.  Then  she 
went  softly  out  of  the  room,  still  shading  the 
candle  from  his  eyes.  He  sat  up  in  bed  when  she 
shut  the  door,  and  opened  his  mouth  to  call 
to  her  .  .  .  and  then  he  lay  down  again  with- 
out speaking.    .    .    . 

In  the  morning,  he  went  to  Belfast,  He  felt  that 
he  could  not  remain  at  home  while  his  mind  was 
still  disturbed.  Dr.  McMeekan  had  said  that  he 
was  not  to  return  to  work  for  another  week,  and  his 
mother,  when  she  heard  of  his  intention  to  travel 
to  Belfast  that  morning,  reminded  him  of  what 
the  doctor  had  said,  and  urged  him  to  remain  in 
Ballyreagh. 

"You'll  be  comfortabler  here  nor  there,"  she  said 
to  persuade  him. 

But  he  had  made  his  decision  and  would  not 
withdraw  it,  and  so  he  went  away.  While  he  was 
in  the  train,  he  felt  exalted  by  his  flight  from 
hi«    father's   presence,   but   his   spirits   fell  when  he 


202  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

reached  Belfast.  The  day  was  gray,  and  there  was 
a  drizzling  rain  falHng  when  he  arrived.  He  had 
given  up  his  labor  of  thinking  and  thinking  as  he 
approached  the  city,  and  had  contented  himself 
with  looking  idly  out  of  the  carriage  window. 
"Your  da's  a  bad  man  an'  your  Aunt  Esther's  a 
bad  woman !"  was  the  phrase  that  recurred  in  his 
brain  as  he  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,  look- 
ing out  on  the  slum  that  lines  the  railway  track 
from  Bloomfield  to  the  terminus  in  Belfast.  "An' 
your  ma  doesn't  say  nothin' !"  seemed  to  come  out 
of  the  noise  of  the  revolving  wheels.  "Them  houses 
is  despert  dirty-lookin' !"  he  said  aloud,  in  the 
middle  of  his  recurring  thoughts  as  the  train 
passed  by  the  back  of  Island  Street:  and  a  farmer's 
wife  in  the  carriage  turned  to  him  and  said,  "Beg 
your  pardon !" 

"Ah,  nothin',"  he  replied.  "I  was  just  thinkin' 
to  myself !" 

It  was  odd,  he  thought,  that  he  had  never  before 
noticed  the  miserable  look  of  those  houses.  He 
had  traveled  that  way  every  week  for  several 
years,  but  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  the 
houses  were  unfit  for  an3'thing  but  destruction. 
"I'm  not  near  myself,''  he  thought  to  himself  in 
explanation  of  his  sudden  perception.  There 
was  a  poorly-painted  picture  of  King  William  the 
Third  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  houses.  .  .  .  He 
remem'bered  that  there  was  an  agitation  against 
Home  Rule.  "They're  makin'  a  quare  cod  of 
theirselves !"  he  murmured,  and  then  he  began 
to  laugh  aloud,  for  a  workman  had  scrawled 
in  whitewash  on  his  wall,  against  a  bedroom 
Avindow : 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  203 

OUR   TRUST   IS  IN   GOD 

and  underneath  in  chalk: 

TO  HELL  WITH  THE  POPE 

The  farmer's  wife  glanced  nervously  at  him,  and 
he  realized  that  she  must  be  full  of  wonder  at  the 
strangeness  of  his  conduct.  ''Beg  your  pardon, 
mem,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  mean  to  trouble  you. 
I've  had  a  bit  of  bother,  an'  I  was  thinkin'  about 
one  thing  an'  another!" 

"Ah,  sure,  it's  all  right,"  she  answered  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  is  trying  to  humor  a  distraught  person. 
"It's  a  soft  day !" 

"Aye,  it  is  that,  an'  it  doesn't  look  like  turnin' 
fine.     It'll  mebbe  rain  the  whole  day  !    .     .     . " 

The  train  drew  up  at  the  platform,  and  the 
woman  hurriedly  prepared  to  leave  the  carriage. 
"I  wouldn't  wonder!"  she  said,  as  she  descended 
from  it. 

He  waited  for  a  few  moments  to  allow  her  to  get 
ahead  of  him.  "That  ould  woman  thinks  I'm  away 
in  the  mind,''  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  left  the 
train. 

He  crossed  the  Lagan  in  the  Ferry  boat,  and 
walked  up  High  Street  to  Castle  Junction,  smiling 
to  lilmself  at  the  alarm  of  the  farmer's  wife;  but 
when  he  had  climbed  on  to  the  electric  car,  and 
was  riding  along  Royal  Avenue  and  Donegal  I 
Street  toward  the  Antrim  Road  where  his  lodgings 
were,  iiis  smile  ceased,  and  his  mind  was  full 
again  of  the  phrases  that  had  beaten  through 
it  while  he  was  in  the  train.  "Your  da's  a  had 
man,    an'    your    Aunt    Esther's    a    bad    woman,    an' 


204  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

your  ma  doesn't  say  nothin' !"  He  could  not 
bear  the  torture  of  it,  and  so  he  descended  from 
tlie  tramcar  at  the  chapel  in  Donegall  Street. 
"It'll  mebbe  stop,"  he  said  to  himself,  "if  I  walk 
the  length  of  the  lodgin's !"  But  it  would  not 
stop.  He  leaned  for  a  moment  or  two  against  the 
railings  of  the  Orange  Hall  in  Clifton  Street,  and 
looked  about  him  with  appealing  eyes.  "Are 
you  not  well,  son.'*"  a  woman,  wearing  a  shawl 
about  her  head,  said  to  him.  "I'm  rightly, 
thank  you,  mem !"  he  answered  quickly,  and 
then  walked  on  his  way.  He  crossed  the  road  at 
Carlisle  Circus,  and  was  almost  knocked  down 
by  a  tramcar  coming  from  the  Crumlin  Road. 
"Why  the  hell  don't  you  look  where  you're  goin', 
you  gumph  you !"  the  angry  and  startled  driver 
shouted  at  him.  He  did  not  answer  the  driver,  for 
he  did  not  hear  him.  "I'll  be  demented," 
he  said  in  a  whisper  to  himself,  "if  I  don't  stop 
thinkin'  about  it!"  He  began  to  run  toward 
his  home.  His  cap  fell  off  as  he  ran,  but  he 
did  not  stop  to  pick  it  up,  nor  did  he  slacken  his 
pace  when  he  heard  people  calling  to  him  that  his 
cap  had  dropped.  The  rain  soaked  his  hair,  and  a 
cold  .shiver  ran  through  his  body  as  he  passed  the 
corner  of  a  street  where  the  wind  came  curling  up 
from  the  Lougli.  "I'll  be  gettin'  my  death  an'  my 
da's  a  bad  man  an'  my  Aunt  Esther's !  .  ,  .  Jase 
but  it's  cold!  .  .  .  Where's  the  house.?  .  .  ." 
He  stopped  irresolutely,  and  looked  vaguely  about 
him.  The  waterworks  were  on  one  side  of  the  road, 
and  he  knew  that  his  lodgings  were  in  a  street  near 
at  hand.  "Where's  the  Limestone  Road.-^"  he  said 
aloud,     and     a     lad,     who     was     passing,     stopped 


MRS.  :MARTIN'S  man  205 

and  pointed  to  it.  "There,  it's  over  there,"  he  said, 
and  went  on. 

Over  there!  .  .  .  "VVliat  ails  me.?"  he  said, 
shaking  himself.  "Not  knowin'  that  yet !  Where's 
my  cap.^" 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  felt  the  wetness 
of  his  hair.  "I  had  a  cap,"  he  murmured,  "when 
I  come  out  of  the  train!" 

He  began  to  search  the  pavement  about  him,  and 
presently  a  number  of  people  collected  about  him. 
"What  are  you  lookin'  for.'"'  they  said,  and  he  re- 
plied, "I've  lost  my  cap !"  It  was  a  funny  thing, 
he  added,  that  he  should  lose  his  cap.  "You  would 
think  I  would  feel  it  fallin'  off  my  head,"  he  said. 
"Is  it  not  anywhere  about.''  It's  a  gray  cap  with  a 
big  peak !    .    .    . " 

"Is  it  a  duncher.''"  demanded  a  message  boy. 

"Aye,  that's  what  you  call  it — a  dunchcr,  wee  lad ! 
Did  you  see  it?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered,  "I 
was  only  askin'  Avhat  sort  of  a  cap  it  was.  It's  not 
about  here  anyway !" 

"You  should  go  on  home,"  a  woman  said  to  him, 
"an'  not  be  standin'  there  get  tin'  wet  through.  Sure, 
what's  an  ould  cap  to  your  death  of  cold.  Go  on 
home,  son !" 

He  looked  at  iicr  resentfully.  How  could  she 
suggest  to  him  that  he  should  go  home.'*  Did  she 
not  hear  him  say  that  he  had  lost  his  cap — a  gray 
ca])  with  a  pig  j>eak.  The  wee  lad  said  it  was  a 
duncher.  .  .  .  Mebbe  she  had  good  call  to  be  sug- 
gesting the  like  of  that  to  him.  Mebbe  she  knew 
who  had  his  cap.  .  .  .  CoukI  anyone  tell  hiin 
where   the  Limestone   J?u;i(l   was.''      It   used   to   he   up 


206  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

the  Antrim  Road.  It  was  called  the  Limestone  Road 
because.  .  .  .  What  the  hell  did  they  mean  by 
hiding  his  cap  on  him!  Could  they  not  go  and  get 
caps  of  their  own.''  It  was  a  gray  cap,  he  told  them. 
Did  they  never  see  a  gra-j  cap  before.''  What  were 
they  all  standin'  there  gapin'  at.''  Had  they  no 
work  to  do.'*  Go  on  home  to  hell  er  that,  the  whole 
of  you.    .    .    . 

He  remembered  the  phrases  he  had  heard  in  his 
mind  when  he  was  in  the  train  and  on  the  tram-car, 
but  now  the  only  phrase  that  came  to  him  was  this: 
An'  your  Aunt  Esther's  a  bad  woman  !    Her!   .    .    . 

He  looked  round  and  saw  a  policeman  approach- 
ing. "Here's  a  peeler,"  he  said,  and  resolved 
to  tell  him  of  the  loss  of  his  cap.  "It  was 
a  gray  one,"  he  said,  as  he  recited  the  story 
of  his  loss  to  the  constable,  "an'  it  had  a  big 
peak — the  kind  you  call  a  duncher.  There  was 
a  wee  lad  here  ...  a  woman  ...  I  live  in 
lodgin's !    .     .    . " 

The  policeman  caught  him  in  his  arms  as  he  fell. 
"Does  any  of  yous  know  him?"  he  said  to  the 
crowd,  as  he  carried  him  toward  a  shop.  The 
crowd  did  not  answer,  and  he  did  not  repeat  his 
question.  "Ah,  poor  sowl !"  exclaimed  the  woman 
who  had  advised  Jamesey  to  go  home,  and  then 
she  hurried  on  her  business.  A  little  crowd  col- 
lected about  the  door  of  the  shop  into  which  the 
policeman  had  carried  Jamesey.  "It's  a  fit,"  said 
a  boy  to  a  man  who  asked  what  was  the  trou- 
ble. ...  A  doctor  came  hurrying  from  his 
surger}',  and  when  he  had  examined  Jamesey,  he 
turned  to  the  policeman  and  said,  "Do  you  know 
where  he  lives.''" 


MRS.  MAHTIX'S  MAX  207 

The  policeman  nodded  his  head.  He  had  searclied 
Jamesey's  pocket,  and  found  a  letter  addressed  to 
him  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Luke  in  a  street  off  the 
Limestone  Road. 

"Well,  get  him  to  his  home  as  quick  as  you  like," 
said  the  doctor.  "He  ought  to  be  in  his  bed,  this 
lad!" 

They  fetched  a  cab  and  took  him  to  his  home. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

Esther  had  written  to  Mrs.  Martin  asking  her  to 
meet  her  at  the  railway  station  on  the  day  after 
Jamesey  went  up  to  Belfast.  They  were  to  travel 
together  to  the  city  in  search  of  a  suitable 
shop  for  Estlier.  But  Mrs.  Martin  could  not  keep 
the  appointment,  for  she  had  hurried  to  Belfast  on 
receipt  of  the  telegrani  from  Mrs.  Luke  informing 
her  of  Jamesey's  illness.  She  had  not  time  to 
write  to  Esther,  and  so  she  bid  Aggie  to  meet 
her  on  the  following  morning  and  tell  her  that  the 
journey  must  be  postponed  for  a  while.  It  hap- 
pened that  when  the  time  came  for  Aggie  to 
ffo  to  the  station,  there  were  several  customers 
from  the  big  houses  in  the  shop,  and  she  could  not 
leave  it;  so  she  called  to  her  father  and 
told  him  of  the  matter,  and  asked  him  to 
go  to  the  station  in  her  place.  He  hesitated  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  he  did  as  she  desired  of 
him. 

Esther  was  standing  in  the  hall  of  the  station, 
with  her  back  toward  him,  when  he  entered  it,  and 
she  did  not  see  him  until  he  came  up  to  her.  She 
started  when  he  touched  her  shoulder,  and  a  fear 
came  into  her  mind.  Had  Martha  turned  against 
her  at  the  last  moment.?  Why  had  James  come  in 
her    place?      Had    he    induced    Martha    to    quarrel 

208 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  209 

with  her,  and  had  he  come  to  taunt  her  in 
public?    .    .    . 

"Martha's  awaj  up  to  Belfast,"  he  said,  speaking 
in  the  manner  of  one  who  delivers  a  message  in  which 
he  takes  no  interest  to  one  who  is  a  stranger, 
"Jamesey's  sick,  an'  she  went  up  to  look  after  him 
last  night." 

"Jamesey's  sick!"  she  exclaimed  anxiously. 

"Aj'e,"  he  replied.  "Martha  left  word  last  night 
with  Aggie  to  come  an'  tell  you,  but  the  shop's  full 
an'  she  couldn't  come,  so  she  sent  me!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  him.'"'  she  demanded. 

"I  don't  rightly  know.  He  took  sick  in  the  street, 
an'  had  to  be  carried  home.  He's  been  a  bit  queer 
this  last  few  days  I" 

Jamesey  was  ill.  She  felt  as  if  her  head  would 
burst  with  the  agony  of  knowing  that.  When  she 
had  turned  suddenly  and  seen  James  standing  by 
her  side,  she  had  felt  Jiervous  and  self-conscious. 
She  had  wondered  what  she  should  say  to  him, 
and  how  she  should  say  it;  and  when  she  had 
spoken,  she  had  done  so  in  a  constrained  voice,  in 
the  toneless  accents  of  a  woman  who  speaks  com- 
monplaces to  a  man  who  has  been  her  lover,  but 
is  her  lover  no  more.  It  had  been  difficult  for 
her  to  forget  that  she  had  lain  in  his  arms  and 
remember  only  that  he  was  one  of  a  crowd  of 
drifting  strangers  to  whom  she  might  say  a  casual 
word  of  greeting  or  whom  she  nn'ght  pass  b}'  in 
silence.  It  had  seemed  to  her,  for  an  instant,  to 
be  terribly  absurd  that  he  and  she  should  nod 
their  heads  and  say,  "That's  a  gran'  day!"  or 
"It's  soft  weather  we're  havin' !"  when  they  had 
lived    so    intimately    together.      It    was    as    if    ihe 


SIO  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

sea,  fresh  from  beating  the  rocks  in  unrelenting 
fury,  should  sidle  up  to  them  and  speak  some 
woini  phrase. 

But  now  her  constraint  had  vanished  from  her 
tongue,  and  she  was  no  longer  self-conscious  and 
nervous.  James  ceased  to  be  the  ghost  of  her  lover, 
and  became  merely  a  messenger  of  bad  news,  a 
passer-bj^  suddenly  entrusted  with  an  errand  in 
which  she  was  concerned. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  exclaimed,  catching  hold  of 
his  arm  so  tightly  that  she  nipped  the  flesh. 

"Leave  go  my  arm !"  he  cried,  snatching  it  from 
her  grasp. 

"Where  is  he.'"'  she  repeated. 

"Where's  who.?" 

"Jameses' !    You  know  rightly  who  I  mean !  .    .    . " 

"Didn't  "^I  tell  you  he's  in  Belfast!  ...  An' 
what's  it  got  to  do  with  you  where  he  is?" 

She  felt  her  anger  rising  in  her,  but  she  held  it 
back,  and  when  she  spoke  her  voice  was  very  calm. 
"I  don't  want  to  argue  with  you,  James !"  she 
began. 

"It  wouldn't  be  no  use  if  you  did,"  he  inter- 
rupted. 

She  felt  contempt  for  him.  He  was  answering  her 
in  the  way  an  ill-bred  brat  in  the  streets  shouts 
names  at  you. 

"Is  he  at  his  lodgin's?"  she  said  quietly. 

"I  didn't  ask  .  .  .  an'  if  I  did  know,  I  wouldn't 
tell  you.  I  don't  want  you  interfcrin'  with  my  fam- 
ily no  more,  Esther  Mahaffy.  You've  interfered 
with  it  enough  In  the  past !" 

"I  know  that,  James !" 

"Well,  if  you  know  it,  there's  no  need  to  tell  you 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  211 

about  it.  I  come  with  the  message  to  oblige  Aggie, 
an'  not  to  oblige  you.  You  could  'a'  stood  here 
til  3'our  feet  was  sore  without  me  botherin'  my 
head  about  you.  I  come  to  save  Aggie  trouble. 
1  dare  say  Martha'll  meet  you  another  time,  only 
don't  forget  it'll  not  be  by  my  will  she'll  meet 
you !" 

She  could  have  laughed  aloud  when  she  heard  him 
say  that.  In  other  times,  it  would  have  been  nat- 
ural for  him  to  sa}',  "I've  told  Martha  she's  not  to 
go  with  you !"  and  Martha  would  have  done  what 
he  desired  her  to  do;  but  now  .  .  .  Tliat  marked 
the  change  in  him  as  much  as  anything  did.  He 
was  a  nerveless  man. 

"She'll  not  go  with  my  will,'"  lie  repeated,  "an' 
if  3'ou  have  any  decency  left  in  you     ..." 

She  could  not  feel  angry  with  him.  It  would 
be  ridiculous  to  feel  angr}'  with  this  poor-plucked 
man. 

"...  you'll  not  force  your  company  on  any  of 
us  after  the  day,"  he  concluded. 

"I'm  not  forcing  my  company  on  anyone,"  she 
said. 

"Aye,  you  arc.  What  do  you  want  with 
Jamesey,  eh.''  I  wonder  at  you,  after  the  past, 
runnin'  after  the  lad  the  way  you  do.  Are  you 
not  ashamed  of  yourself,  comin'  into  a  man's  house, 
an'  mindin'  him  of  things  that's  over  an'  done 
with.^" 

She  had  no  reply  to  make  to  this  outburst  of  re- 
])roach,  and  so  she  turned  away  and  walked  toward 
the  train  which  had  drawn  up  in  the  station.  He 
stood  still  for  a  while  and  gazed  after  her,  and  then 
he  followed  her. 


212  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"I  tell  3'OU  I  dou't  want  you  talkin'  to  my 
childer,"  he  said  to  her.  "Do  you  hear  me  speakin', 
woman !" 

"I  hear  you  right  enough,"  she  replied. 

"Well,  be  heedin'  me  then !" 

He  waited  for  her  to  answer,  but  she  did  not  do 
so,  and  he  turned  to  leave  her.  He  walked  down 
the  platform  toward  the  street-door  and  then  he 
turned  to  look  back  at  her.  She  was  climbing 
into  a  carriage.  He  stopped,  and  then  as  if  he 
realized  that  she  was  going  up  to  Belfast  to  sec 
Jamesey,  he  hurried  back  along  the  platform  until 
he  came  to  the  door  of  the  carriage  in  which  she 
was  sitting. 

"You're  not  goin'  up  to  Belfast,  are  you?"  he 
said. 

"I  am,"  she  rephed.  "You'll  not  tell  me  where 
Jamesey  is,  an'  I'm  goin'  up  to  find  out !" 

He  got  into  the  carriage  beside  her.  "It's  no 
good  you  goin'  anear  him,"  he  said,  as  he  did  so, 
"an'  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  you  to  interfere  atween 
him  an'  me !    ,     .    ." 

"You  said  that  before,  James,"  she  interrupted, 
"but  I'm  not  heedin'  anything  you  say  now !" 

"You'll  have  to  heed  me.  What  would  Jamesey 
say,  do  you  think,  if  he  knew  about  you  an'  me, 
eh?" 

He  leered  at  her  as  if  he  were  suggesting  that  he 
would  betra}^  her  if  she  did  not  desist  from  forcing 
herself  on  his  son.  She  looked  round  at  him,  and 
watched  the  expression  on  his  face  for  a  few  seconds 
before  she  replied. 

"He  knows  already,"  she  said  (juietly. 

The  leer  went  off  his  face,  and  in  its  place  came  a 


MRS.  :\[ARTIN'S  MAN  213 

look  of  fear  and  horror.  "He  knows  already!  .  .  ." 
he  gasped. 

She  nodded  her  head.  "I  told  him  when  he  came 
out  to  Millisle  a  day  or  two  ago,"  she  said. 

He  gaped  at  her  incredulously.  He  could  not 
believe  that  she  had  told  her  secret  to  Jamesey. 
When  he  had  leered  at  her  as  if  he  would  make 
her  believe  that  she  must  do  as  he  commanded  her 
on  pain  of  having  her  story  told  to  Jamesey,  he 
had  had  no  intention  of  making  any  revelation.  He 
did  not  care  wliether  Jamesey  knew  or  not,  but  he 
was  afraid  of  Aggie  learning  the  truth. 

"You're  lettin'  on,"  lie  said. 

"It  'ud  be  a  quare  thing  to  let  on  about,"  she 
answered. 

"You  mean  you  told  him.'*" 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"Holy  God !"  he  exclaimed. 

The  ticket  collector  came  to  examine  the  tickets, 
and  James  descended  from  the  carriage.  Tiie  col- 
lector closed  tlie  door,  and  when  he  had  gone,  James 
leaned  over  the  window  and  looked  at  Esther  with 
an  expression  of  dreadful  misery  in  his  eyes. 

"What  did  you  do  it  for?"  he  said. 

"I  had  to  tell  him,"  she  answered.  "Things  were 
put  in  his  mind  by  Mr.  Haveron  and  his  Uncle 
Henry!    ..." 

"Hell  to  them !" 

"An'  I  couldn't  keep  it  back  from  him.  I  hml 
to  tell  him." 

"Och,  what's  the  good  of  talkin'  that  way.  You 
didn't  need  to  tell  him.    ..." 

"Aye,  I  did  need  to  tell  him.  .  .  .  I'm  not  goin' 
to  talk  to  vou  about  it,  so  vou  needn't  be  waitin' 


214*  MRS.  :SIARTIN'S  MAN 

no  longer.  You  can  go  back  to  your  Aggie!" 
There  was  a  strain  of  bitterness  in  her  voice  when 
she  said  the  last  sentence. 

He  did  not  move  away  even  when  the  guard  blew 
his  whistle. 

"Will  he  tell  Aggie,  do  you  think?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know,  an'  I  don't  care!"  she  replied 
M'earily. 

"You  don't  care !  My  God,  Esther,  I'll  make  you 
care  if  he  tells  her !" 

The  guard  blew  his  whistle  again,  and  the  train 
began  to  move  out  of  the  station.  James  walked 
b}'  the  side  of  the  carriage  in  which  Esther  sat  as 
long  as  he  could  keep  pace  with  the  train,  but  he 
did  not  speak  to  her.  He  glared  at  her  with  eyes 
full  of  hate,  and  then  when  he  could  no  longer 
keep  up  with  her  carriage,  he  shook  his  fist  at  her 
and  damned  her  loudly.  She  paid  no  heed  to  his 
looks  and  curses,  but  sat  in  a  corner,  looking  out 
of  the  further  window.  She  must  be  near  to 
Jamesey.  She  must  find  him  and  take  care  of  him, 
and  win  him  from  his  sickness  to  love  of  her  again. 
He  might  be  at  his  lodgings,  but  if  he  were  in  a 
hospital,  the  woman  who  kept  the  lodgings  could 
tell  her  where  he  was.  There  were  two  hospitals 
in  Belfast  of  which  she  knew,  the  Royal  Hospital 
and  the  Mater  Infirmorum,  so  her  search  would  not 
be  a  difficult  one.  If  only  Martha  had  sent  for  her 
last  night.  ...  As  the  train  ran  along  the  track, 
under  the  road  to  Millisle  along  which  she  had 
walked  that  morning  after  the  day  on  which  James 
returned  to  Ballyreagh,  she  stood  up  in  the  car- 
riage, and  leaned  against  the  window.  There  on  one 
side  was  the  sea  moving  very  gently  on  to  the  rocks, 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  215 

and  here  on  this  side  were  fields  of  flax  and  corn 
and  grazing-lands.  She  saw  the  tall  tower  of" 
the  Moat,  high  on  its  hill,  and  her  mind  filled  with 
memories  of  the  events  in  her  life  with  which  it 
was  associated.  .  .  .  She  moved  forward  so  that 
she  could  lean  out  of  the  window  and  look  back  at 
the  little  town  in  which  she  had  lived  since  she  was 
born  .  .  .  and  as  she  did  so,  slie  realized  that  she 
was  bidding  it  farewell.  She  would  never  return  to 
Ballyreagh,  nor  Avould  she  ever  again  see  the  things 
there  that  had  molded  her  life.  The  Gathers  would 
wonder.  ,  .  .  She  Avas  taking  her  dusty  and  bitter 
memories,  with  her,  but  she  had  some  pleasure 
in  remembering  that  she  was  leaving  their  cradle 
behind   her. 

The  train  gathered  speed,  and  vei-y  soon  Bally- 
reagh was  hidden  from  her,  but  still  she  stood  at 
the  window  gazing  back  toward  the  place  where  her 
home  had  been.  She  felt  the  train  curving,  and 
when  she  glanced  across  the  fields,  she  saw  Helen's 
Tower  on  a  height  and  fell  to  wondering  about 
Helen.  .  .  .  She  remembered  how  ]Martha  and  she, 
when  Jamcsey  and  Aggie  were  little,  had  made  an 
excursion  to  the  I'ower  one  day,  and  Jamesey  had 
begged  to  be  told  the  story  of  Helen's  Tower.  .  .  . 
She  did  not  ci'y,  for  the  wells  of  her  eyes  Avere 
empty.  She  had  been  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  valley  of  liumiliation  and  unsatisfied  desires, 
and  had  shed  all  her  tears  in  going  down;  and 
now  she  was  marching  out  of  the  valley,  noi, 
indeed,  with  a  smiling  face  and  a  light  heart, 
but  with  her  head  held  high  and  her  eyes  clear.  If 
Jamesey  would  take  her  love  again,  she  would 
be   happy   once  more ;   for   now  her  life   would   not 


216  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

have  any  illusions  in  it.  She  would  not  be 
sitting  up  in  her  room  in  the  long  afternoons, 
looking  over  the  sea  and  wondering  where  James 
was,  living  or  dead,  nor  would  she  keep  a 
chamber  in  her  heart  locked  for  him.  She  would 
give  all  her  love  to  Jamesey,  she  would  make  him 
the  daj'-star  of  her  dreams.  .  .  .  She  did  not 
resume  her  seat  until  the  train  ran  into  Newtownards 
station,  and  then  she  sat  down  and  closed  her  eyes 
in  peace,  and  did  not  open  them  again  until  she  was 
in  Belfast. 

She  went  to  Mrs.  Luke's  house,  and  when  she 
knocked  at  the  door,  it  was  opened  by  Martha.  Mrs. 
Martin  did  not  appear  to  be  surprised  at  seeing  her 
standing  there  on  the  doorstep. 

"I  thought  you  might  come,"  she  said,  as  she  led 
her  into  the  house.  "I  knew  you'd  bo  upset  when 
you  heard  about  Jamesey  bein'  sick,  but  I  wish  you 
hadn't  come  all  the  same !" 

"Is  he  bad,  Martha?" 

"No,  not  very  bad.     He's  light-headed  a  bit!'* 

"Did  he  ask  ifor  me,  Martha.?" 

"No,  Esther,  he  didn't!" 

Esther  turned  away  and  waited  for  her  sister 
to  speak  again,  but  Martha  did  not  speak.  She 
went  toward  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  they 
were  sitting.  "I'm  goin'  upstairs  to  him  now,"  she 
said.  "I'll  not  tell  him  you're  here,  not  3^ct  a  wee 
while.     It  'ud  mebbe  upset  him !    .    .    . " 

"Ah,  sure !    .    .    . " 

"I'll  break  it  to  him  by  degrees,  Esther!"  She 
came  back  into  the  room  and  stood  beside  her  sis- 
ter. "I  suppose  you  told  him  ever3'thing?"  she 
said. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  217 

Esther  nodded  her  head. 

*'Poor  wee  lad,"  Martha  exclaimed,  "it  must  have 
upset  him  terrible !" 

Esther  put  her  hand  on  her  sister's  arm,  and 
pressed  it  as  if  she  were  appealing  to  her.  "What'll 
I  do,  Martha?"  she  said.  "If  I  lose  him,  I'll  have 
nothin'  in  the  world !" 

"I  don't  know,  Esther.  We'll  have  to  wait  a 
while  til  things  is  quieter.  Don't  be  sittin'  here  an' 
broodin'  now.    You'd  better  go  on  home  again.  .    .  ." 

"I'll  never  go  back  there  again,  Martha,"  Esther 
said,  interrupting.  "I  can't  bear  to  live  there  with 
everything  tellin'  me  about  the  times  that's  gone. 
I  said  to  myself  in  the  train  as  I  was  comin'  here 
I'd  never  put  my  foot  in  the  place  another  time 
as  long  as  I  live,  an'  I  won't,  Martha,  so  don't  ask 
me!" 

She  told  her  sister  of  her  encounter  with  James. 

"He  was  ragin'  when  he  heard  that  Jamesey  knew 
about  him  and  me !" 

"Was  he,  Esther.?" 

"Aye.  He's  afeard  of  his  life  of  Aggie  gettin'  to 
know!" 

"He's  quarely  taken  up  with  her.  ...  I  won- 
der if  Mrs.  Luke  can  take  you  in,  Esther.?" 

"You'll  let  me  stay  with  you  while  he's  sick,  won't 
you,  Martha.?  I  couldn't  bear  not  to  be  near  him 
an'  him  not  well." 

"Aye,  you  can  stay  here  if  there's  room  for  you." 

They  consulted  Mrs.  Luke  and  found  that  it  was 
possible  for  Esther  to  remain  in  the  house,  and  so 
it  was  arranged  that  she  should  do  so. 

"An'  now  you  can  Just  go  out  an'  look  about  you, 
Esther,"  said  Mrs.   Martin  when   the  airangements 


SI 8  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

were  complete.  "It's  no  good  30U  slttin'  here 
broodin'  over  everything.  Go  on  out  an'  take  a  walk 
to  yourself,  an'  mebbe  you'll  see  a  shop'll  suit  you. 
That'll  give  you  plenty  to  occupy  your  mind.  You 
can  be  findin'  a  place  for  Jamesey  to  live  in  when 
he's  better — an'  while  you're  out,  I'll  tell  him  you're 
here." 

Esther  did  not  want  to  go  out.  If  Martha  only 
knew  how  anxious  she  was  about  Jamesey,  she  would 
not  have  the  heart  to  ask  her  to  quit  out  of  the 
house  until  she  had  seen  him.    .    .     . 

"Esther,  dear,  I  know  rightly,"  Mrs.  Martin  said, 
"but  you'd  do  better  to  go  and  do  as  I  tell  you. 
I'll  have  him  prepared  for  you  by  the  time  you  get 
back.  What  ^^ou  told  him  hurt  him  fearful,  an'  a 
young  lad  takes  a  while  to  get  over  the  like  of  that, 
an'  him  not  well.  I'll  talk  til  him  quietly,  an'  tell 
him  the  way  of  things,  an'  mebbe  he'll  be  more 
amenable  by  the  evenin' !    .    .    . " 

"Does  he  not  want  to  see  me,  then.'"' 

"Now,  don't  be  talkin',  dear,  but  go  on  out  as  I 
tell  you,  an'  it'll  mebbe  be  all  right  in  a  wee  while. 
He's  like  yourself,  he's  not  wantin'  to  go  back  to 
Bally reagh,  an'  mebbe  if  you  were  to  come  back  an' 
tell  him  of  a  shop  you've  got  he'd  be  willin'  to  live 
with  you  in  it  when  he's  better !" 

"Mebbe  you're  right,  Martha!" 

"I  am,  Esther!"  Mrs.  Martin  replied.  "You'll 
have  a  bite  to  ate  now — Mrs.  Luke'll  get  it  for  you 
— an'  then  you'll  go  out  a  while !" 

She  left  her  sister  in  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Luke, 
and  went  upstairs  to  her  son's  bedroom,  and  later 
on  she  heard  the  street  door  close  softly  and  she 
knew  that  Esther  had  gone  out  to  explore  the  city. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

Esther  went  out  of  the  house  when  she  had  finished 
her  meal,  and  sauntered  down  the  Limestone  Road 
toward  the  tramway  station.  A  fine  air  blew 
down  the  road  from  the  Cave  Hill,  and  she  drew 
in  deep  breaths  of  it  as  slie  strolled  along.  Her 
spirits  rose  as  her  lungs  expanded,  and  the  heavy 
dolor  which  had  lain  upon  her  in  the  morning 
rolled  off  her.  She  climbed  on  to  a  tramcar,  with- 
out looking  at  the  indicator  to  see  the  name  of  its 
destination,  and  let  herself  be  carried  toward  the 
town.  There  was  a  bright  look  of  hard  cheeri- 
ness  about  Belfast.  She  saw  that  the  houses  were 
ugly  and  badly-contrived,  even  when  they  were 
occupied  by  men  of  means,  and  she  felt  some 
of  the  monotony  of  the  dreary  streets  through 
which  the  car  carried  her;  but  if  the  streets  were 
ugly  and  the  houses  mean  in  appearance,  they  were 
without  pretense,  and  those  who  lived  in  them, 
though  they  had  no  feeling  for  fine  things,  were 
alert  and  keen  and  full  of  movement.  The  live- 
liness of  the  people  returning  to  their  shops  and 
offices  and  warerooms  from  their  midday  meal,  in- 
fected her;  and  in  a  little  while  she  was  planning 
lier  life  in  the  city,  with  Jamesey  as  her  son ; 
for  now  she  looked  upon  him  as  if  he  were 
her  child. 

219 


9.9.0  MRS.  IMARTIN'S  MAN 

She  would  build  a  big  business,  more  prosperous 
than  that  which  Martha  had  created,  and  she 
would  make  a  will  iti  Jamesey's  favor.  She 
woidd  leave  all  her  money  to  him,  and  then  he 
would  be  very  well-off.  He  would  have  to  be  rich 
before  anyone  in  Belfast  would  think  highly 
of  him.  Some  one  said  to  her  once,  that  if  Jesus 
Christ  Himself  were  to  live  in  Belfast,  and 
were  not  the  managing  director  of  a  linen-mill  or 
some  equally  rich  man.  He  would  not  gain  any 
Belfast  man's  respect.  "They  would  make  Ould 
Nick  himself  Lord  Mayor  if  he  had  a  lot  of  money, 
an'  was  a  Prodesan' !"  She  had  laughed  at 
Johnnie-look-up-at-the-moon  when  he  said  that, 
but  she  knew  it  was  true,  and  she  fully  approved 
of  the  spirit  behind  that  truth.  She  would  try  to 
put  Jamesey  in  the  way  of  getting  rich.  She 
Avould  work  hard  in  her  shop,  and  scrape  every 
penny  together  that  she  could,  and  she  would  try 
and  get  a  nice  girl  with  money  for  Jamesey  to 
marry.  .  .  .  Mebbe,  if  the  shop  were  successful, 
she  could  open  another  one,  and  then  Jamesey  could 
give  up  his  Avork  at  "the  Island"  if  he  liked  and  take 
charge  of  it.  "Who  knows,"  she  murmured  to  her- 
self, "we  might  have  six  shops  one  place  and 
another !" 

Jamesey  and  his  wife  would  have  a  son  and  a 
daughter,  and  they  would  spend  a  great  deal  of 
money  on  educating  them.  The  boy  would  be  sent 
to  Camjjbell  College  and  then  to  tlie  Queen's 
University,  and  the  girl  would  go  to  Mrs.  Byers' 
school.  .  .  .  She  knew  a  minister  who  got  his  edu- 
cation at  Campbell  College,  and  he  was  the  only  man 
of  notable  education  she  had  ever  known    ...    so 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  S21 

Jamesey  should  send  his  son  to  Campbell  College, 
too,  or  if  that  was  not  the  best  school  in  Belfast, 
they  would  send  the  child  to  whatever  school  was 
best  .  .  .  and  perhaps  he  would  become  a  minister, 
and  be  thought  a  great  deal  of,  and  the  daughter 
would  learn  to  play  the  piano  and  talk  in  the  way 
the  English  talk  .  .  .  "not  broad  like  me  an' 
]\Iartha !"  .  .  .  and  then  she  would  marry  a  high- 
up  man  that  would  mebbe  be  on  the  Corporation, 
"an'  who  knows  but  she  might  be  the  Lady  Mayoress 
one  day  I" 

It  would  be  a  fine  consolation  to  her  for  all  she  had 
endured  if  she  could  bring  prosperity  to  Jamesey, 
and  place  him  in  the  way  of  becoming  an  eminent 
citizen.  Dear  knows  what  he  might  become,  for 
he  had  the  head  for  getting  on !  Half  the  people 
in  Belfast  had  begun  far  lower  down  than  Jamesey. 
Look  at  that  man  that  kept  the  druggist's  shop, 
an'  was  made  Lord  Mayor  an'  let  call  himself  "Sir" 
like  any  quality-man,  and  look  at  the  man  that  kept 
the  wee  sweetie  shop,  an'  his  ma  sold  dulce  ajid  green 
apples  an'  made  sticky  lum{)s  an'  yellow  man  Avith 
her  own  hands — an'  there  he  was  now  with  three 
shops,  an'  him  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  sending 
fellows  to  jail  for  a  month  and  more,  an'  as  likely 
as  not  he  would  be  Lord  Mayor  one  day,  an'  have 
his  picture  hung  up  in  the  Town  Hall!  Some 
Lord  Mayors  had  their  statue  j)ut  up  to  them! 
.  .  .  An'  if  the  like  of  them  could  do  the  like 
of  that,  why  couldn't  Jamesey  do  it  too!  He 
had  been  well-reared,  which  was  more  than  some 
of  the  men  that  had  got  on  were,  for  plenty 
of  them  had  no  more  mnnnors  than  an  ould 
dish-clout!    .     .     . 


222  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

She  descended  from  the  tramcar  at  Castle  Junc- 
tion. The  dinner-time  was  not  j'et  over,  and  there 
was  a  confusion  of  men  and  women  in  the  streets : 
hidies  shopping,  young  clerks  and  warerooin  girls 
flirting,  and  newsboys  running  here  and  there 
with  Telegraphs  and  Echoes.  She  wondered  why 
the}^  called  out  "Telly-ger-ah !"  for  Telegraph 
.  .  .  and  then  passed  along  Donegall  Place,  where 
the  rich  shops  are,  and  spent  a  while  in  gazing  into 
windows  at  furs  and  dresses  and  shoes  and  linen 
goods.  She  paused  for  a  lengthy  time  at  the  door 
of  a  photographer's  studio,  looking  at  the  portraits 
of  fashionable  women  and  celebrated  men  .  .  .  and 
wondered  why  it  was  that  she  had  never  had  fine 
clothes  to  wear.  She,  too,  had  been  lovely  ...  no 
one  could  deny  that,  although  they  might  say  that 
she  no  longer  had  a  beautiful  appearance  .  .  . 
but  she  had  never  had  a  rich  dress  in  which  to 
array  her  beauty.  "Some  of  them  women  isn't  nice- 
lookin'  at  all,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  looked  at 
the  portrait  of  a  scraggy  marchioness,  "an'  the 
clothes  don't  look  near  as  nice  on  them  as  they 
would  'a'  looked  on  me.  Aggie  would  set  them  off 
quaren  well!    .     .    ." 

She  turned  away  from  the  case  of  photographs, 
and  walked  up  the  Place  toward  the  City  Hall.  She 
had  never  been  inside  it,  and  she  decided  to  enter 
the  building  and  look  about  her,  but  before  she 
crossed  the  street,  she  saw  a  tramcar  coming 
toward  her,  bearing  "Albert  Bridge  Road"  on  its 
indicator,  and  suddenly  she  remembered  that  the  girl 
at  the  Cathers'  had  told  her  of  a  man  who  kept  a 
hardware  shop  on  that  road,  and  was  eager  to  sell 
it.      She   called   to   tJie   driver   of   the   car   to   stop, 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  223 

and  mounted  it  and  was  carried  over  the  bridges, 
across  the  Lagan  to  the  Albert  Bridge  Road.  She 
sat  on  top  of  the  car,  and  saw  the  hills  that  make 
a  lovely  belt  about  the  city.  A  light  roll  of 
mist  lay  on  the  side  of  them,  but  it  did  not  blur 
the  outline  of  Napoleon's  Head  rising  above  the 
Lough.  She  got  down  fiorn  the  tramcar,  and  stood 
for  a  while  leaning  against  the  parapet  of  the 
Albert  Bridge,  thinking  to  herself  how  lovel}'  was 
the  world.  The  Lagan  was  in  full  tide,  and  so  the 
filthy  mud  that  the  manufacturers  have  poured 
into  was  mercifully  hidden  from  her  eyes :  she  only 
saw  the  beautiful  winding  movement  of  the  river 
as  it  came  by  Ormeau  Park  and  ran  under  the 
bridge  toward  the  quays  and  then  to  the  sea. 
A  little  group  of  boys,  stripped  to  the  pelt,  bathed 
off  the  logs  that  a  timber  merchant  kept  floating 
on  the  south  side  of  the  river,  and  Esther  watched 
the  sunlight  glistening  on  their  shining  wet  skins. 
They  would  stand  erect  on  a  log,  hands  stretched 
upward  and  then  bend  swiftly  forward  and  cut 
the  water  with  their  hands  and  head.  Up  they 
would  come,  puffing  and  blowing  and  shaking  tlie 
water  from  their  eyes  and  hair,  and  make  long,  easy 
strokes  as  they  swam  and  dived  and  floated. 
Such  shouts  they  gave,  and  jolly  noises,  and  when 
they  had  climbed  out  of  the  river  on  to  the 
logs  again,  how  daringly  they  ran  along  the  mov- 
ing piles  to  dry  their  skins  in  the  wind!  There 
was  a  dog  that  ran  up  and  down  the  logs,  barking 
at  the  bathers,  and  nosing  the  water  as  if  he  won- 
dered whether  he  too  should  dive  in  .  .  .  and  then 
a  lump  of  a  lad  gave  it  a  shove,  and  in  it  went  ! 
.    .     .    P^sther  laughed  aloud  when  she  saw  the  dog 


22i  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

scramble  indignantly  back  on  to  the  logs,  and  .shake 
itself  petulantly.    .    .     . 

She  began  to  feel  kinship  with  the  inhabitants  of 
this  city.  She  felt  that  she  could  easily  love  it  for 
its  briskness  and  its  keen  air  and  its  lovely  hills  and 
beautiful,  winding  river,  and  its  cheery  crowd  of 
men  and  women  and  boys  and  girls  who  go  blithely 
to  their  work.  Everj'thing  about  the  cit^'  pleased 
her,  even  its  mean  and  ugly  things.  The  misera- 
ble Albert  Memorial  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  splendid 
tower.  .  .  .  "You  can  see  the  time  from  here !" 
she  said  to  herself  as  she  looked  at  it  .  .  .  and  the 
drab,  displeasing  building  which  the  drab,  dis- 
pleasing Presbyterians  have  built  for  themselves 
.  .  .  she  could  see  the  roof  of  it  .  .  .  even  these 
pleased  her  as  greatly  as  the  hills  and  the  sea  and 
the  running  river  and  the  fine  air  of  the  morning. 
She  resolved  that  she  would  live  near  this  bridge 
if  it  were  possible  for  her  to  do  so,  because  here 
she  could  see  so  much  of  the  city  spread  out  before 
her. 

She  had  lived  a  quiet,  effortless  life  in  Bally- 
reagh,  broken  by  her  adventure  with  James. 
One  did  not  derive  a  sense  of  exultation  from  one's 
work  there:  it  was  dull  labor,  dully  done.  But 
here,  in  Belfast,  men  took  pride  in  work.  The 
hearty  ring  of  great  labor  could  be  heard  every- 
where in  the  city.  Horns  hooted  all  round  her, 
calling  women  to  the  mill  and  men  to  the  foundry. 
She  remembered  that  when  she  came  out  of  the 
terminus  of  the  County  Down  Railway  that 
morning  she  had  heard  the  regular  clanging  of 
hammers  on  steel  as  the  men  in  the  shipyards 
beat  the  sides  of  ships  together,  and  made  them  fit 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  225 

for  the  big  adventures  of  the  sea.  How  could 
she  fail  to  live  happily  in  this  city  where  there  was 
making  and  remaking  of  things  that  penetrated 
the  seven  seas  and  were  known  in  lonely  remote 
places  because  they  were  excellent  and  good? 
Here  were  engines  and  ships  and  fine  linens  and 
great  ropes ;  tall,  towering  vessels  that  moved 
from  continent  to  continent,  and  carried  a  thou- 
sand souls  as  easily  as  a  rowing-boat  carries  one 
man;  great  boilers  and  shining  engines  and  little 
twisting  wheels  that  made  gigantic  energies ;  and 
delicately-broidered  fabrics  to  fold  about  a  woman's 
slender  limbs  ...  all  these  were  made  in  this 
city,  and  were  known  all  over  the  world.  Her 
heart  stirred  proudly  when  she  recollected  that 
Jamesey  had  his  place  in  that  shipyard  where  the 
mightiest  boats  in  the  world  are  made.  He  iiad 
helped  to  lay  the  lines  of  one  great  vessel  and 
another,  and  had  felt  joy  surge  in  him  when  he 
saw  a  ship  leave  the  slips  wiicn  a  little  cord  was 
slit,  and  move  slowly  into  the  river  with  the  grace 
of  a  royal  swan.  She,  too,  would  feel  that  pride. 
She  would  have  no  more  sorrows  in  her  heart. 
She  would  take  her  place  in  this  city  of  hammering 
men,  whose  deeds  of  making  and  shaping  and 
forming  and  fashioning  are  a  marvel  of  the  marvels 
of  men.    .    .    . 

She  turned  away  from  the  bridge,  and  went 
across  the  road  to  the  public-house  at  the  corner 
of  Short  Strand,  where  a  policeman  was  standing, 
and  asked  him  if  he  could  tell  her  where  Ferguson's 
hardware  shop  was.  It  was  near  at  hand.  If  she 
would  walk  down  the  road,  past  the  Woodstock 
Road,    and    keep    on    until    she    came    to    the    shop 


226  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

with  the  big  brush  over  the  door,  she  would  see  it 
plain  enough.  She  thanked  him,  and  followed 
in  the  direction  he  had  given  her ;  and  in  a  short 
while  came  to  the  shop.  She  stood  for  some 
moments  gazing  in  at  the  window,  and  was  pleased 
to  see  that  it  was  well-stocked  with  goods.  The 
shop  seemed  bigger  than  she  wanted,  but  perhaps, 
she  told  herself,  that  did  not  matter.  She  went 
into  it,  and  spoke  to  the  proprietor,  a  Scotsman, 
who  desired  to  quit  the  city  and  return  to  his  home 
on  the  eastern  side  of  Scotland.  She  discussed  the 
situation  of  the  shop  with  him,  and  the  amount  of 
the  turnover,  and  the  price  he  required  for  the 
good  will,  and  then  he  conducted  her  over  the  house. 
The  whole  of  the  ground  floor  was  occupied  by 
shop  space :  the  return-room  had  been  altered 
to  a  kitchen  and  there  were  a  bedroom  and  a 
drawing-room  on  the  first  floor,  and  two  attics 
above  them. 

"It's  a  big  house,"  she  said,  standing  in  the 
center  of  the  large  drawing-room  and  looking 
about  her,  "There'll  only  be  me  an'  my  nephew  to 
live  in  it.  .  .  . "  Her  vision  of  Jamesey's  future 
came  into  her  mind  again,  and  she  said  to  herself 
that  when  he  married,  he  and  his  wife  could  live 
with  her.  "I'd  be  quaren  lonely  if  he  was  to 
marry  an'  set  up  for  himself  somewhere  else,"  she 
tliought. 

She  talked  for  some  time  with  the  o\vner  of  the 
sliop,  and  then  she  went  away.  "I'll  let  you  know 
m}'  decision  iu  a  wee  while,"  she  said ;  "I'll  have 
to  talk  it  over  with  my  sister.  Mebbe  her  an' 
me'll  come  in  to  see  you  the  morrow  or  the  next 
day !" 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  227 

She  walked  home,  not  feeling  fatigue  until  she  had 
reached  the  Limestone  Road  again,  and  as  she  walked 
she  tried  to  reckon  what  sum  she  might  leave  to 
Jamesej  when  she  died.  The  money  her  father  had 
left  her  had  grown  slowly  into  a  comfortable  sum, 
and  the  purchase  price  of  the  good  will  of  the  Albert 
Bridge  Road  shop  would  affect  her  fortune  inappre- 
ciably;  but  she  wanted  to  leave  a  very  big  amount 
of  money  to  Jamesey;  and  so  she  plotted  and  con- 
trived in  her  mind  how  she  should  make  it,  and  so 
absorbed  was  she  in  her  plans  that  she  did  not  notice 
the  length  of  the  road  she  had  to  go  nor  did  she 
notice  how  tired  she  was  until  her  feet  began  to 
drag.  "I'll  be  glad  to  get  in,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "I  wonder  has  Martlia  told  Jamesey  yet 
I'm  here !" 

She  knocked  at  the  door  and  was  admitted  to  the 
house  by  Mrs.  Luke. 

"Och,  is  that  you.?"  Mrs.  Luke  exclaimed.  "I 
was  wonderin'  would  you  come  home  to  your  tay. 
Com€  on  in  an'  I'll  have  it  ready  for  you  in  a  wee 
minute!" 

"Is  my  sister  downstairs.?"  Esther  asked  as  she 
took  off  her  hat  and  jacket. 

"No,  she  is  not,  but  I  daresay  she'll  be  down  in 
a  wee  while !" 

She  went  upstairs  to  the  room  which  had  been 
allotted  to  her,  and  left  her  hat  and  jacket  there, 
and  washed  her  hands  and  face.  When  she  came 
out  of  the  room,  she  met  Martha  on  the  stairs.  She 
was  about  to  speak  to  her,  when  Martha  held  her 
fingers  to  her  lips. 

'•Don't  say  a  word,"  slie  said,  taking  hold  of  her 
arm  and  leading  her  downstairs. 


928  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Is  he  worse,  Martha?"  Esther  asked  an- 
xiously. 

"No,  he's  all  right.  He's  a  good  deal  better  nor 
he  was.  I  think  he'll  mebbe  be  able  to  get 
up  a  wee  while  the  morrow.  .  .  .  It's  not  that, 
Esther !" 

Mrs.  Luke  came  to  the  door  of  the  kitchen,  and 
called  to  Esther. 

"I  have  your  tay  ready,"  she  said. 

Martha  answered  her.  "All  right,  Mrs.  Luke," 
she  replied.  "We'll  be  in  in  a  wee  minute.  I  just 
want  to  say  somethin'  to  my  sister !" 

She  led  Esther  into  the  parlor,  and  shut  the  door 
behind  her. 

"I've  told  him  you're  here,  Esther.    ..." 

"Yes,  Martha?" 

Mrs.  Martin  did  not  reply  inmiediately.  She  took 
hold  of  Esther's  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"What  is  it,  Martha?" 

"You'll  not  be  vexed,  Esther,  dear  .  .  .  he's  not 
near  himself  at  all  .  .  .  he's  sick,  you  under- 
stand!   ..." 

"Oh,  what  is  it?" 

"I  told  him  you  were  here,  an'  he  said  he  didn't 
want  you  to  stop.    ..." 

Esther  witlidrew  licr  liand  from  her  sister's  grasp 
and  stood  with  her  back  to  her.  She  did  not  speak. 
She  stood  quite  still  with  her  fingers  clutching  the 
rim  of  the  round  mahogany  table.  The  table  had 
a  beaded  edge,  and  she  let  her  fingers  run  backward 
and  forward  along  it— one,  two,  tlirce  .  .  .  and 
then  it  was  nine ;  one,  two,  three  .  .  .  and  then 
it  was  nine  again.    .     .     . 

"I'm  quaren  sorry,  Esther,"  Mrs.  Martin  said. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  :\rAN  229 

One,  two,  thi'ce.  .  .  .  She  took  her  fingers  off 
the  beading,  and  turned  to  her  sister.  ''What'll  I 
do.^"  she  said. 

"Do  nothin'  yet  awhile !  I  tell  you,  he's  not 
near  himself.  I  told  him  you'd  go  away  the 
night!    ..." 

"The  night !" 

"Aye,  but  sure  you  needn't  do  that !  I  only 
said  it  to  quiet  him.  It's  no  good  puttin'  him  in 
an  agitation,  an'  him  the  bad  he  is.  He  needn't 
know  you're  here,  an'  mebbe  when  he's  stronger, 
an'  I  have  a  talk  ^v^th  him  again  he'll  change 
his  mind !" 

Esther  did  not  reply  at  once.  She  went  to  the 
window  and  sat  down  on  a  chair  there  with  her 
face  averted  from  Martha.  The  dream  she  had  made 
as  she  rode  on  the  tramcar  had  dissolved,  and  now 
she  was  left  with  nothing.  Jamesey  did  not  want 
her  to  stay  in  the  same  house  with  him.  He  could 
not  bear  to  have  her  near  him.  .  .  .  She  got  up 
and  went  to  Martha's  side.  Her  demeanor  was  calm, 
and  her  voice  was  firm.  There  were  no  tears 
in  her  eyes,  and  no  remonstrance  in  what  she 
said. 

"I'd  better  do  what  he  wants,"  she  said. 

"No,  Esther,  you'll  not  go  yet  awhile.  He'll  never 
know  you're  here !    .    .    . " 

"I  would  know,  Martha,  wouldn't  I.?" 

Martha  looked  at  her  closely.  This  was  a  new 
Esther  that  stood  before  her,  a  woman  she  had  never 
seen  before. 

"Aye,  that's  true,  Esther,"  she  said.  "That's  true 
enough !" 

Esther  went  to  the  door  of  the  room  and  opened 


gSO  ^IRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

it.  "I'll  have  my  tay,"  she  said,  "an'  then  I'll  get 
my  things  an'  go.  Mebbe,  Mrs.  Luke'll  tell  me 
where  I  can  get  lodgin's !" 

"I  daresay  she  can!"  replied  Mrs,  Martin. 

"It's  a  good  job  I  haven't  writ  to  the  Gathers 
yet,"  Esther  said,  standing  with  her  hand  on  the 
edge  of  the  door.  She  smiled  as  she  spoke,  a  dry, 
uncheerful  smile.  "They'd  'a'  been  sendin'  my  things 
til  the  wrong  address !" 

They  went  in  to  the  kitchen  where  the  tea  was 
laid,  and  Mrs.  Martin  told  Mrs.  Luke  that  Esther 
found  it  necessary  to  seek  other  lodgings.  "It's 
over  the  head  of  some  bother,"  she  said  in  expla- 
nation, and  Mrs.  Luke  nodded  her  head  as  if  she 
xmderstood.  While  Esther  had  her  tea,  eating  very 
little,  Mrs.  Martin  inquired  about  fresh  rooms  for 
her.  "It'll  need  to  be  a  place  near  here,"  she  said, 
"where  her  an'  me  can  be  together  when  we 
want  to !" 

Mrs.  Luke  knew  of  suitable  apartments  and  at 
Mrs.  Martin's  request  she  went  off  to  inquire  about 
them.  When  she  had  gone,  the  two  sisters  sat  in 
silence  while  Esther  finished  her  meal. 

"You're  not  eatin'  nothin',  Esther,"  Mrs.  Martin 

said. 

"I     don't     want     much,     Martha.        I've     had 

enough !" 

Mrs.  Martin  cut  a  piece  of  soda-bread  and  but- 
tered it. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "eat  that.  You've  tasted 
nothin',  at  all,  an'  you  must  be  starvin' !" 

"I  couldn't  touch  it,  Martha !    .     .     . " 

Mrs.  Martin  put  the  bread  down  on  a  plate  and 
went  to  Esther,  and  put  her  arms   round  her  and 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  261 

dragged  lier  up  from  her  seat  so  that  her  head  rested 
on  her  shoidder. 

"I'd  give  the  world  for  this  not  to  have  happened, 
Esther,"  she  said. 

"I  know  you  would,  Martha !" 

"I  can't  bear  to  see  3'ou  bein'  hurt  the  way  3'^ou 
are,  with  everything  turnin'  against  you  .  .  .  but 
I'm  not  against  you,  Esther,  no  matter  for  no  one, 
an'  3^ou'll  come  to  me  whenever  you  need  me,  so 
you  will,  whatever  anybody  says,  won't  you?" 

Esther  could  not  speak — she  knew  that  she 
should  cry  if  she  spoke — so  she  just  nodded  her 
head. 

"Don't  be  upsettin'  yourself,  Esther,  dear,  over 
the  head  of  this.  It'll  mebbe  come  all  right  in  a 
wee  while.  Jamese^'s  not  well,  poor  son,  or  he 
would  never  have  said  it  .  .  .  an'  you  have  to 
J)umor  them  when  they're  sick,  so  you  have,  an'  it's 
no  good  grumblin'.  Him  an'  me'll  have  a  wee  crack 
thcgether  when  he's  better,  an'  mebbe  he'll  understan' 
better  when  he's  listened  to  an  ould  woman.  Young 
lads  is  quaren  set  on  tliemselves,  Esther,  an'  they 
don't  know  the  half  they  think  they  know,  but 
there's  nothin'  bad  in  them,  an'  when  you  tell  them 
things  quiet  and  nice  thej^'re  quaren  understandin'. 
They're  not  like  ould  men  tliat  have  no  wits 
at  all,  but  goes  on  sayin'  things  over  an'  over,  an' 
them  not  a  hap'orth  the  wiser  for  it,  nor  3'ou 
neither!" 

Mrs.  Luke  came  back  as  she  said  this,  and  so  she 
let  Esther  go.  It  was  all  right,  Mrs.  Luke  said,  her 
friend  could  take  Esther  in,  and  would  be  very  glad 
to  do  so. 

"Will  you  get  ready  now,  Esther,"  Mrs.  Martin 


232  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

said.  "I'll  come  the  length  of  the  house  with  you, 
an'  see  you  safely  settled !" 

"Do  you  think  you  ought  to  leave  him,  Martha?" 
she  replied. 

"He's  asleep,  daughter  dear,  an'  he'll  not  harm 
if  he's  left  a  wee  while.  Get  your  hat  an'  jacket 
on  now,  an'  we'll  go  up  thegether." 

They  got  ready  to  go  out,  and  Mrs.  Luke  directed 
them  to  the  house. 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Luke,"  said  Esther. 

"Good-night  to  you !"  Mrs.  Luke  replied. 

Then  Martha  took  hold  of  Esther's  arm  and  held 
it  very  tightly,  and  they  walked  up  the  road  in  the 
dusk  together  to  the  house  where  Esther  was  to 
stay. 

"I'll  not  come  in,"  she  said,  as  they  stood  at  the 
door. 

"All  right,  Martha.     Good-night  to  you !" 

Mrs.  Martin  drew  her  to  her  and  kissed  her. 
"Good-night,  Esther,"  she  said,  "an'  God  love 
you !" 


CHAPTER    XIX 

Mrs.  Martin  had  written  to  Aggie  before  she  spoke 
to  Jamesey  of  Esther,  and  had  told  her  that  her 
aunt  was  staying  with  her. 

"Jamesey's  gettin'  on  nicely,  da !"  Aggie  said  to 
her  father.  "My  Aunt  Esther's  stoppin'  in  the  same 
lodgin's  with  him  an'  my  ma !" 

"Who  is.'"'  he  said,  looking  across  the  shop  at  her 
as  if  he  were  not  quite  certain  tluit  he  had  heard 
aright, 

"My  Aunt  Esther,  da.  So  she  went  up  to  Belfast 
after  all.?" 

"I  saw  her  goin'  in  the  train,"  he  replied.  He 
tied  some  hearth-brushes  together  and  suspended 
them  from  a  nail  in  the  ceiling.  "Is  she  stoppin' 
long  with  them.''"  he  said,  when  he  had  done  this. 

"My  ma  says  she's  stoppin'  with  Jamesey  aUhe- 
gether,  an'  she's  not  coniiir  hack  til  Bally reagh  no 
more.  It's  quarc  her  goin'  on  like  that  just  when 
y(ju  come  home,  da !'" 

"Is  it,  daughter?" 

"Aye,  3^ou  would  neai-  think  you  an'  her  wasn't 
speakin',  the  way  she's  conductin'  herself.  I  don't 
think  it  was  at  all  like  the  tiling  her  goin'  off  to  the 
Cathers  at  Millisle  the  way  she  done,  an'  you  hardly 
got  your  head  inside  the  door.  Things  like  that 
makes  people  talk !" 

233 


234.  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

There  was  a  look  of  alarm  in  his  eyes  as  he  went 
over  to  the  counter,  and  leaned  across  it. 

"Did  you  hear  any  talk  about  it.^^"  he  said. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "I  did  not.  Forby,  I  wouldn't 
hsten  to  it  if  I  did!" 

He  smiled  at  her,  and  patted  her  hand.  "Ah, 
you're  the  right  wee  girl,"  he  said. 

Aggie  went  to  the  oil-barrel,  and  measured  out  a 
gallon  of  oil.  "Will  you  take  this  lamp-oil  up  to 
Mrs.  Orr's  now,  da.-^"  she  said. 

"I  will  if  you  want  me  to !"  He  took  the  oil- 
can from  her,  and  got  ready  to  go  out. 

"My  ma  says  my  Aunt  Esther's  goin'  to  start  a 
sliop  the  same  as  this  in  Belfast,  an'  have  Jamesey 
to  lodge  with  her !    .     .    . " 

He  put  the  oil-can  down,  and  gazed  about  him 
stupidly. 

"Is  anything  ailin'  you,  da.'^"  Aggie  asked 
anxiously. 

He  pulled  himself  together,  and  took  the  oil-can 
up  again.  "No,"  he  said.  "Ah,  no !  Nothin'  ails 
me.  I'm  awaj^  now  to  Mrs.  Orr's  with  the  oil.  I'll 
be  back  in  a  wee  while !" 

He  left  the  shop,  and  proceeded  along  the  road 
to  Mrs.  Orr's  house.  So  she  had  taken  no  notice 
of  what  he  had  said  to  her.  He  had  told  her  slie 
was  not  to  interfere  with  his  family  in  future,  but 
instead  of  going  away  and  hiding  herself  from  them, 
she  had  boldly  gone  to  his  wife  and  son  and  an- 
nounced that  she  intended  to  offer  a  home  to  the 
lad.  .  .  .  And  Jamesey  knew  all  that  there  had 
been  between  them,  too,  and  his  mind  was  turned 
again  his  father  already !  .  .  .  Damn  her !  .  .  . 
Of  course,  if  Esther  was  to  stav  in  Belfast  for  the 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  235 

rest  of  her  life  .  .  .  but  Jamesey  would  come 
down  to  Ballyreagh  sometimes  .  .  .  and  Aggie 
would  go  up  to  Belfast  now  and  then  .  .  .  the 
girl  would  wonder  why  her  aunt  never  came  near 
them,  and  mebbe  she  would  ask  questions,  and 
Esther  would  give  answers  to  them.  It  would  be  like 
Esther  to  do  that.  She  would  take  a  delight  in 
turning  Aggie  against  him,  just  to  spite  him  for  the 
way  he  had  treated  her.    .    .    . 

He  left  the  oil  at  Mrs.  Orr's  house,  and  then 
walked  slowly  to  the  shop.  Perhaps,  he  thought  to 
himself,  he  would  have  done  better  to  tell  Aggie  the 
truth  himself.  Martha  had  made  a  suggestion 
of  that  sort  to  him  when  he  first  returned.  Mebbe, 
if  he  were  to  tell  her  some  of  the  truth,  not  all  of 
it,  just  the  bit  about  Esther,  and  were  to  put  it 
as  well  as  he  could.  .  .  .  He  remembered  that  he 
had  heard  Aggie  speak  bitterly  one  day  of  a  man 
who  had  treated  his  wife  badly.  "I  wouldn't  own 
him  if  I  was  her !"  she  had  said  emphatically. 
The  man  had  not  done  anything  like  the  things 
that  he  had  done,  and  if  Aggie  were  so  fierce  in 
her  anger  against  him,  would  she  not  be  fiercer  still 
against  her  father  when  she  learned  the  truth 
about  him?  He  had  managed  to  divert  her  mind 
from  inquiring  about  his  life  since  he  had 
left  home  by  talking  vaguely  about  troubles  and 
dissensions,  but  if  she  should  hear  a  particle  of 
the  facts,  if  suspicion  should  grow  up  in  her  mind, 
he  might  have  difficulty  in  keeping  her  affection 
.  .  .  he  might  lose  it  altogether.  Jamesey  might 
tell  on  him,  but  so  far  he  had  not  said  anything,  and 
perhaps  he  would  keep  the  news  to  himself.  H 
only  Esther  were  away  somewhere!    .    .    .    Well,  it 


S36  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

was  no  good  wishing.  She  was  in  Belfast,  living 
in  the  same  house  with  Jamesey  and  Martha,  and 
proposing  to  find  a  home  where  Jamesey  could 
always  live  with  her — a  constant  menace  to  his 
peace  of  mind  unless  he  could  persuade  Aggie  to 
listen  to  his  story  without  turning  from  him  with 
loathing. 

He  entered  the  shop,  and  found  Aggie  putting  on 
her  hat.  "I  saw  you  coniin',"  she  said,  "so  I  started 
to  get  ready.  Will  you  just  stop  here  a  wee  while 
till  I  go  home  an'  make  the  dinner,  an'  then  I'll  bring 
yours  down  to  you !" 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  then  went  and  sat  down 
at  the  back  of  the  shop.  "You'll  not  be  long, 
will  you?"  he  asked,  as  she  went  toward  the 
door. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "I  will  not!"  She  stood  for 
a  few  moments  on  the  step  gazing  up  and  down 
the  road,  "It's  a  quare  nice  day,  the  day!"  she 
said. 

"Aye !" 

"If  it  keeps  up  like  this,  I  declare  I'll  go  up  to 
Belfast  on  Sunday  an'  see  how  is  Jamesey!    .    .    ." 

He  started  from  his  seat.  "What  do  you  say.'"' 
he  exclaimed. 

She  did  not  observe  that  he  was  agitated. 

"I  think  I'll  go  up  to  Belfast  on  Sunday,"  she 
replied,  "if  it's  fine,  an'  see  Jamesey  an'  my  ma 
an'  my  Aunt  Esther!    ..." 

"Your  Aunt  Esther?" 

"Aye,  I  haven't  seen  her  this  good  while.  It'll 
be  a  change  for  me.  Mebbe,  you'd  like  to  come 
yourself,  da?" 

He  went   back  to   his   seat.     "Ah,  what   do  you 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  2S7 

want  to  go  up  there  for?"  he  said.  "Sure,  Jamesey's 
all  right.  Your  ma  said  he  was  gcttin'  better, 
didn't  she.?" 

"Och,  aye,  but  I  would  like  to  go  up  just  for 
the  sake  of  the  thing!" 

"It's  not  much  of  a  place  to  be  goin'  to,  Belfast !" 
he  said. 

She  came  back  into  the  shop,  laughing  at  him 
as  she  did  so.  "Sure,  I'm  not  goin'  to  see  the  place,*' 
she  said.  "I'm  goin'  to  see  Jamesey  an'  my  ma  an' 
my  Aunt  Esther.  No  one  but  a  man  was  born  blind 
would  go  to  Belfast  on  a  Sunda^^ !" 

"They'll  not  be  wantin'  you  there !    .    .    . " 

"You  would  think,  the  wa}^  you're  talkin',  you 
didn't  want  me  to  go !"  she  said  acidly. 

"Och,  now,  Aggie,"  he  exclaimed  quickly,  "what 
put  that  notion  in  your  head.''  What  would  I  not 
want  you  to  go  for?  You  can  go  if  you  like! 
You  can,  of  course!  I  was  only  thinkin'  that 
your  ma'll  be  all  throughother  with  Jamesey 
sick!    ..." 

"My  ma's  never  throughother,  an'  Jamesey's 
gettin'  better,  so  that's  settled.  If  you  don't  like 
to  come  with  me,  sure  you  can  stop  at  home !" 

There  was  temper  in  her  voice,  and  he  felt  that 
he  must  conciliate  her  somehow.  "I  wasn't  meanin' 
nothin',"  he  said  plaintively,  "only  as  I  was  comin' 
along  I  had  an  idea  of  takin'  you  for  a  sail  in  the 
Bangor  boat!" 

Her  eyes  brightened,  and  the  ill-temper  went 
out  of  her  voice.  "Were  you,  da?"  she  ex- 
claimed in  pleasure.  "That  was  quaren  thoughtful 
of  you!" 

"Aye.     There's  a  bill   on  the  wall  about  a  coast 


S38  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

trip  from  Belfast.  The  boat  stops  at  Bangor  an' 
here,  an'  then  it  goes  til  Larne  an'  back  again. 
I  said  to  mj'^self,  it  would  be  right  good  diversion 
for  Aggie  if  I  was  to  take  her  for  a  trip  .  .  .  an' 
of  course,  I  felt  a  bit  disappointed  when  I  heai'd 
you  sayin'  you  were  goin'  til  Belfast.  I  wasn't 
meanin'  til  tell  you  yet  a  while.  ...  I  wanted  to 
give  you  a  wee  surprise!    ..." 

She  went  to  him,  and  put  her  arms  round  his  neck. 
"Ah,  da!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Of  course,  if  you're  set  on  goin'  to  see  your 
ma  an'  Jamesey,"  he  said  cunningly,  for  he  saw  that 
he  had  shaken  her  resolve,  "you'll  have  to  go  .  .  . 
but  I'll  be  quarely  disappointed!" 

"We'll  wait  til  Sunday,"  she  said.  "If  it's 
fine,  I'll  go  with  you  on  the  trip,  an'  if  it's  wet, 
I'll  go  up  to  Belfast.  I  must  hurry  now  an'  get 
the  dinner,  or  if  I  don't  it'll  be  tay-time  before 
ever  I  know!" 

She  kissed  him  and  went  quickly  out  of  the  shop. 
He  got  up  and  followed  her  to  the  door,  and  stood 
looking  after  her.  At  the  corner  of  Hunter's  Lane, 
she  turned  and  waved  her  hand  to  him  and  he 
waved  his  in  response,  and  then  she  went  out  of 
sight.  He  had  not  achieved  much  after  all. 
Whether  she  went  to  Belfast  on  Sunday  or  not 
depended  on  the  chance  of  what  the  weather  was 
like.  It  was  fine  enough  that  minute,  but  in  the 
morning  the  rain  might  be  coming  down  in  sheets, 
and  on  Sunday  it  might  be  as  stormy  a  day  as 
ever  there  was.  Even  if  the  weather  were  fine, 
and  he  and  Aggie  went  sailing  on  the  Bangor  boat 
to  Lame,  he  would  not  be  delivered  from  liis  fear; 
for  Aggie  viould  want  to  go  and  see  Jamesej  some 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  239 

other  day.  She  would  be  certain  to  insist  upon 
seeing  Esther's  new  shop.  Whatever  way  he 
looked  at  it,  his  problem  seemed  insoluble.  If 
Esther  were  away  somewhere,  if  she  were  in 
America  .  .  .  but  what  was  the  use  of  wishing. 
V/ishing  would  not  alter  facts.  Esther  was  in 
Belfast  and  likely  to  stay  there,  and  Aggie  would 
one  day  go  to  see  her.  ...  Of  course,  Esther 
might  not  tell  Aggie  of  her  relations  with  him. 
It  was  true  that  she  had  told  Jamesey,  but  sus- 
picion had  been  put  into  Jamesey's  mind,  and  he 
had  gone  to  her  .  .  .  and  Esther  was  fonder  of 
Jamesey  than  she  was  of  Aggie.  She  might  easily 
feel  that  she  must  tell  Jamesej',  but  have  no  feeling 
about  telhng  Aggie.  If  he  could  get  her  to  prom- 
ise not  to  tell  the  girl !  ]Mebbe  if  he  were  to 
write  to  Martha  and  ask  her  to  use  her  influence 
with  Esther,  she  would  consent  never  to  reveal  any- 
thing to  Aggie.  Martha  could  coax  Jamesey,  too. 
.  .  .  It  was  enough  to  drive  a  man  distracted 
mad  to  sit  and  wonder  what  was  best  to  be  done. 
He  would  write  to  Martha,  that  was  what  he  would 
do,  or  write  to  Esther  .  .  .  no,  he  would  not 
write  to  Esther;  he  could  not  beg  a  favor  from 
her — he  would  write  to  Martlia  and  tell  her  of 
his  fear  and  beg  her  for  the  love  of  God  to  make 
Esther  swear  never  to  tell  anything  of  her  story 
to  Aggie.    .    .    . 

He  went  behind  the  counter  and  searched  for 
the  pen  and  ink,  and  when  he  had  found  them, 
he  opened  the  desk  and  rummaged  among  the  ac- 
counts and  papers  there  in  search  of  writing- 
paper.  He  found  a  few  bill-heads,  and  he  began 
to   write   to   his   wife.      He   wrote,   "Dear   Martha," 


MO  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

and  then  he  put  the  pen  and  ink  back  on  the  desk, 
and  tore  the  bill-head  in  pieces  and  flung  it  under 
the  counter.  He  would  not  write  to  his  wife.  He 
would  go  to  Belfast  by  the  next  train,  and  see 
Martha  and  Esther,  and  talk  over  the  matter  with 
them.  That  would  be  the  best  thing  to  do.  He 
would  make  some  excuse  to  Aggie  for  leaving  the 
shop  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  He  would  pretend 
he  was  eoine;  over  to  Newtownards  about  some- 
thing  or  other :  he  would  not  tell  her  he  was  going 
to  Belfast  because  if  he  were  to  do  so,  she  might 
wonder  at  his  sudden  resolve.  He  would  tell  her 
that  after  he  had  had  his  dinner  he  was  going  for 
a  long  walk  as  far,  perhaps,  as  Newtownards,  and 
would  not  be  back  until  late.  He  would  say  he 
was  tired  of  sitting  in  the  shop  all  day,  and  felt  a 
need  for  a  long  walk.    .    .    . 

He  ruminated  in  this  manner  until  Aggie  re- 
turned to  the  shop,  carrying  his  dinner  in  a  basket. 
He  ate  the  meal  in  silence,  and  then  when  he  had 
finished,  he  got  up  and  stretched  himself,  and  said 
that  he  felt  in  great  need  of  exercise.  "I  haven't 
had  a  good  walk  since  I  come  home,"  he  said,  "an' 
I  was  rightly  used  to  walkin'  in  America!" 

'"I  daresay  you  were,  da.  America's  a  bigger 
place  nor  this,  an'  you'd  be  more  accustomed  to 
big  distances  there  nor  here!" 

"You  are,  indeed,"  he  replied.  "It's  bad  for 
you  not  to  get  your  proper  exercise  if  you're  used 
to  it.     I  feel  quaren  fidgctty !    .    .    . " 

"Well,  sure,  go  on  out  for  a  walk.  It'll  do  you 
good." 

"Ah,  but  I  wouldn't  like  to  leave  you  by  your 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  :\IAN  2il 

lone.  It  wouldn't  be  right  to  ask  you  to  look  after 
the  shop  without  some  one  to  help  you !    .    .    . " 

"Indeed,  then,  an'  I'll  be  all  riglit,"  she  replied. 
"I've  been  left  by  myself  many's  the  time,  an'  got 
on  brave  an'  we^l.  Forby,  this  isn't  a  busy  day 
anyway.  Go  on  off  with  you  now,  an'  be  exercisin' 
3'ourself,  for  sure  I've  oftentimes  been  told  if  a 
man's  not  let  walk  himself  tired  now  an'  a  while, 
he'll  disturb  the  house  fearful !"  She  smiled  at 
him.  "If  I  don't  let  you  go,"  she  continued,  "I'll 
have  you  smashin'  all  the  dclph  on  me,  an'  then 
what'll  my  ma  say !" 

"Ah,  go  long  with  you !"  he  exclaimed,  throwing 
a  piece  of  paper  at  her. 

She  caught  the  paper  and  threw  it  aside.  "What 
did  I  tell  you,"  she  said.  "You've  started  cloddin' 
things  already !  Go  on  out  quick  or  you'll  be 
kickin'  the  place  to  bits !" 

He  pretended  to  be  angry  with  her,  and  began 
to  kick  at  the  crocks  in  the  corner,  and  she  pre- 
tended to  be  alarmed,  and  ran  and  wrestled  with 
him.  He  struggled  with  her  and  she  tried  to  push 
him  out,  vowing  all  the  while  that  she  would  send 
for  the  peelers ;  and  then  he  suddenly  relaxed  his 
liold  on  her,  and  she  fell  into  his  arms,  and  he 
kissed  her  and  told  her  she  was  a  wee  tory,  and 
that  she  plagued  the  life  out  of  her  poor  old  father, 
but  that  he  would  be  even  with  her  yet  for  he 
would  take  a  long  tramp  and  not  be  home  until 
after  dark ;  and  then  she  would  think  he  had  run 
away  from  her,  and  was  never  coming  back 
again.    .     .     . 

"Ah,  you're  an  ould  blether!"  she  exclaimed, 
])ulling  his  beard. 


942  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  now,"  he  said.  "I'll  not  be 
back  for  my  tay.  I'll  walk  as  far  as  Newtown- 
ards!    .    .    ." 

"Och,  for  dear  sake,"  she  cried,  mocking  him. 
"Sure,  you  could  never  walk  that  length,  an  ould 
lad  like  you!" 

"I  could  walk  twice  that  length,"  he  replied. 
"I  could  walk  til  Belfast  an'  back  as  easy  as 
anything!    ..." 

"You're  quaren  good  at  gabblin'l"  she  said. 

"Will  you  dare  me  to  walk  to  Newtownards  an' 
back,"  he  retorted.  "Go  on!  Dare  me!  I'll  bate 
you  sixpence  I  walk  there  an'  back.    ..." 

"Och,  I  wouldn't  like  to  take  your  money  from 
you!" 

"Well,  I'll  walk  it  anyway !" 

He  went  out  of  the  shop,  and  started  to  go 
toward  the  station.  She  followed  him  to  the  door 
and  when  she  saw  the  direction  in  which  he  was 
walking,  she  shouted  to  him. 

"Hi,  da!"  she  called.  "That's  not  the  way  to 
Newtownards !" 

He  waved  his  hand  to  her.  "Sure,  I  was  only 
goin'  this  way  to  cod  you,"  he  replied.  "I  was 
lettin'  on  to  go  by  train!" 

She  wagged  her  head  at  him,  and  he  turned  up 
one  of  the  streets  leading  to  the  Newtownards  Road, 
but  he  did  not  go  far.  He  came  back  to  the  corner 
of  the  street,  and  peered  cautiously  round  it,  Aggie 
was  not  standing  at  the  shop-door,  and  so  he 
went  on  quickly  to  the  station.  There  was  a  train 
standing  at  the  platform  wlien  he  entered  the 
hall,    and    he    took    his    ticket    and    climbed    into    a 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  MS 

smoking-carriage  and  soon  was  being  carried  to 
the  city. 

He  found  the  house  in  which  Jamese3'  lodged 
after  some  trouble,  for  he  had  lost  his  familiarity 
with  Belfast. 

"Is  Mrs.  Martin  in?"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Luke, 
who  opened  the  door. 

"She  is  not,"  Mrs.  Luke  replied.  "She's  away 
out  with  her  sister  over  the  town !" 

"Will  she  be  long,  do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you.  Are  you  a  friend  of 
hers.?" 

"Aye,"  he  replied.  "I  was  wantin'  to  see  her 
partic'lar,  an'  I  have  to  go  back  to  Ballyreagh 
the  night!" 

"Mebbe  you'll  come  in  an'  rest  yourself  a  wee 
while.  I  don't  know  what  time  they'll  be  here,  but 
her  son'll  be  in  any  minute.  He's  not  been  very 
well!    ..." 

"I  heard  that !" 

"An'  he  just  got  up  the  day  for  the  first  time 
since  he  was  took  bad.  He's  away  out  for  a  bit 
of  a  dandhcr,  but  I  don't  suppose  he'll  be  long 
before  he's  back!" 

He  hesitated,  and  then  he  turned  away.  "Ah, 
I'll  not  bother  him,"  he  said,  "an'  him  not  well. 
It's  his  ma  I  was  wantin'  to  see,  not  him.  I'll 
call  back  in  a  while  if  you  think  she'll  not  be 
late.    ..." 

"She'll  be  back  for  lier  tay  anyway.  Her  an' 
her  sister  went  over  to  Ballymacarrett  to  see  a 
shoj)  the  sister's  thinkin'   of  takin' !" 

He   nodded   his   liead,   and   went   down   the   path. 


M4i  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Thank  you  very  much,  mem!"  he  said.  "I'll  come 
back  in  the  evenin' !" 

"Will  I  say  who  called?"  Mrs.  Luke  asked. 

"Ah,  no,  you  needn't  bother,"  he  replied  as  he 
walked  off. 

He  went  down  the  road,  and  when  he  came  to 
the  Antrim  Road,  he  crossed  it,  and  walked  along 
one  of  the  streets  which  run  at  right  angles  to  it. 
When  he  had  walked  some  time,  and  had  crossed 
York  Street,  and  had  penetrated  into  the  little 
slums  that  lie  on  the  south  of  it,  he  found  himself 
at  the  harbor.  Rain  began  to  fall,  and  he  stood 
in  the  porch  of  a  public-house  for  shelter.  The 
sheds  into  which  the  cargo  of  the  cross-channel 
steamers  was  discharged  had  a  dreary,  dreepy  look, 
and  the  carters  and  stevedores,  who  had  covered 
their  shoulders  with  sacking  as  a  protection  from 
the  rain,  had  a  cold,  moist  appearance  that  made 
him  feel  cold,  too,  when  he  saw  them.  A  keen 
air  came  blowing  down  the  quays ;  and  when  he 
thrust  his  head  out  to  see  what  the  sky  was 
like,  it  caught  hold  of  him  and  caused  him  to 
shiver. 

"It's  damn  coul'!"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
thrusting  his  hands  deeply  into  his  pockets,  and 
stamping  his  feet  on  the  tiles  in  the  porch.  His 
resentment  against  Esther  increased  when  he  re- 
flected that  had  it  not  been  for  her,  he  would  not 
at  that  moment  be  standing  there,  shivering  in  the 
wind.  There  was  a  comfortable  fire  in  the  shop 
at  Ballyreagh,  and  if  it  had  been  raining  there, 
as  it  was  raining  here,  he  would  have  settled  him- 
self in  an  armchair  in  the  warmth,  and  would  have 
passed   the   time   talking   to   Aggie,   "gagging"   her 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  245 

about  her  bojs,  or  playing  Snap  with  her,  for 
she  wouldn't  play  devil's  cards,  or  draughts  mebbc 
or  dominoes.  .  .  .  Instead  of  enjoying  himself 
in  the  companj''  of  his  daughter,  and  her  the 
grand-looking  girl,  too,  here  he  was  standing  in 
a  back-street  public-house,  in  the  drenching  rain, 
shivering  and  shuddering,  and  all  over  the  head  of 
Esther.    .    .    . 

He  whistled  to  himself  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  danced  on  the  tiles ;  but  his  efforts  to  cheer 
himself  were  poor  efforts,  and  in  a  short  while  he 
ceased  to  whistle,  and  he  did  not  dance  any  more. 
He  leaned  against  the  lintel  of  the  door,  and  watched 
the  rain  dribbling  down  the  roof  of  the  shed  in 
front  of  him.  A  lorry  went  by,  laden  with  sheets 
of  iron,  and  its  wheels  made  a  loud,  rattling  sound 
on  the  square-setts  as  it  passed,  and  the  sheets  of 
iron  clattered  together  in  a  long,  resonant  rumble. 
The  horse  was  steaming,  and  the  driver  huddled 
on  the  shafts  had  a  bleak  face. 

"It's  enough  to  deaven  you,  that  noise!"  James 
said  to  himself,  holding  his  hands  against  his  ears 
to  shut  out  the  sound. 

A  drove  of  pigs  went  by,  and  a  drove  of  cattle, 
driven  by  herds  who  shouted  and  tliwacked,  and 
thwacked  again  and  shouted.  Tlie  cattle  went  on 
to  the  ships  with  little  persuasion,  but  tlio  pigs 
made  a  miserable  squealing  as  they  were  hauled 
along  the  gangways  by  the  lugs,  or  induced  to  go 
forward  by  having  their  tails  twisted  or  tlioir  hides 
poked  by  the  drovers'  sticks.  One  pig  bolted  fi'oni 
the  herd  and  ran  grunting  down  the  quay,  pursued 
by  drovers  and  hungry-looking,  bare-leggerl  lads. 
James    forgot    his    shivering   state   and    ilie    pelting 


246  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

rain  while  he  watched  the  pursuit  of  the  squealing 
pig,  and  laughed  to  himself  when  he  saw  it  stop 
so  suddenly  that  one  of  the  drovers,  unable  to  check 
himself  in  time,  fell  over  its  back.  .  .  .  In  a  httle 
while  the  beast  was  captured  and  led  ignominiously 
back  to  the  boat. 

A  man  came  and  stood  in  the  porch  by  James's 
side. 

"That's  a  soft  day,"  he  said. 

"Aye,  you're  right.     It  is,"  James  replied. 

They  talked  of  the  rain  and  the  pigs  and  the 
cattle  and  the  ships  crossing  the  Channel. 

"I  was  in  Englan'  a  while  myself  once,"  said  the 
stranger.  "I  was  workin'  on  the  Tyne  .  .  . 
I'm  a  riveter  to  my  trade.  Were  you  ever  in 
Englan'.?" 

"I  was  an  odd  time  or  two,"  James  answered. 
"I've  been  in  America  more  nor  there!" 

"Englan's  a  great  place!" 

"I  daresay  it  is.     America's  bigger!" 

"Well,  now,  it's  not  the  bigness  that  matters. 
It's  the  kind  of  people.  There's  quare  nice  people 
over  in  Englan.'  They're  not  the  kind  you  get  over 
here!" 

"What's  the  differs.?"  James  asked. 

"Och,  there's  many  a  differs.  They  don't  be 
askin'  you  what  your  religion  is,  for  one  thing, 
nor  preventin'  a  man  from  doin'  his  work  because 
he's  a  Cathhk.    .    .    .   I'm  a  Cathlik!" 

"Are  you  now?" 

"Aye.  It's  the  rehgion  I  was  reared  to.  No 
one  ever  interfered  with  me  because  I  was  a  Cathlik 
in  Englan',  but  hi  this  place  .  .  .  well,  I'm  not 
workin'  the  day  over  the  head  of  it!" 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  217 

"Why  are  you  not?" 

"Och.  A  lot  of  heater-boys  started  writin'  'To 
Hell  with  the  Pope'  on  the  side  of  a  ship  an'  I 
checked  them  for  it,  an'  the  whole  of  them  got 
up  a  clan  again  me,  an'  I  was  bate  out  of  the 
yard.  'You  Fenian,  get  you!'  they  shouted  after 
me,  an'  begun  cloddin'  rivets  after  me.  You 
would  think  they  were  wild  savages  from  the  heart 
of  Africa  the  way  they  go  on.  The  peelers  tried 
to  stop  them,  but  sure,  the  peelers  was  afeard  of 
them,  an'  I  was  hit  over  the  head  with  a  rivet,  an' 
had  me  skull  cut  open.  There's  the  mark  of  it 
on  my  head !"  He  showed  a  wound  on  his  crown. 
"I  had  to  be  took  to  the  hospital,  an'  have  it 
stitched !" 

"It  looks  better  now,"  James  said. 

"Aye,  it's  all  right,  but  I  daren't  go  anear  the 
Yard  yet.  The  foreman  told  me  himself  to  stop 
away  a  while.  It's  easy  enough  to  say  stop  away, 
but  where's  the  money  comin'  from.'  .  .  .  They're 
a  warm  lot  in  this  town.  What  do  you  think  of 
lads  that  writes  'To  Hell  with  the  Pope'  on  a  boat 
that'll  sail  the  world?  There's  a  nice  sort  of  a 
thing  for  fellows  to  be  doin'.  Writin'  bigotry  on 
a  boat  that'll  go  from  here  til  America.  You 
would  think  they'd  be  ashamed  to  let  the  world 
know  the  kind  they  are,  an'  would  be  hidin'  it  at 
home,  but  indeed  they  have  no  shame  at  all.  The}^ 
want  the  world  to  know.  Are  you  a  Prodesan 
yourself.'"' 

"I  was  reared  one,  but  I'm  nothin'  at  all  myself!" 
James  answered. 

"Ah,  now,  you  ought  to  be  somcthin'.  That's 
not  right  at  all.     I  say  myself  many's  a  tini!',  an 


24-8  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

Or'ngeman's  a  Christian  for  all  he  does !  I  don't 
believe  in  not  believin'  nothin'.  But  I  was  goin'  to 
say,  it's  quare  the  way  tlie  Or'ngeman  carries  their 
bigotry  everywhere.  I  was  over  in  Lancashire  one 
time.  Were  you  ever  in  one  of  them  towns  where 
they  make  cotton  .f^" 

James  shook  his  head.  "I  was  never  anywhere 
but  Liverpool,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  you  ought  to  see  them  places  in  Lancashire. 
They're  despcrt  towns.  You  would  think  you 
were  lookin'  in  the  bad  place,  they're  that  fearful. 
Smoke  an'  cinders !  But  the  people's  dacent, 
kindly  people.  They  are  that!  None  of  your 
bigotry  over  there!  You  would  be  surprised  now 
the  way  the  Or'ngemen  goes  over  to  them  towns, 
an'  starts  their  wee  Or'nge  Lodges  where  they're 
not  wanted,  an'  walk  about  on  the  Twelfth  of 
Jul}'  showin'  off  their  bigotry.  The  people  in 
Lancashire  can't  bear  them,  so  they  can't.  Comin' 
over  here,  they  say,  with  your  narrow  minds,  an' 
disturbin'  peaceable  people  with  your  Or'nge 
banners  an'  your  Or'nge  drums  an'  your  ould 
Or'nge  minds.  That's  what  they  say  about  them 
over  there.  I  heard  them  say  it  many's  a  time. 
An'  sure  the  half  of  them  Or'nge  lodges  is  nothin' 
but  drinkin'  clubs  an'  gamblin'  hells.  There's 
Or'nge  lodges  in  Lancashire  that  a  dacent  person 
wouldn't  enter.  .  .  .  I'll  have  to  go  out  of  this 
again,  to  Glasgow  or  Sunderland,  mebbe,  an'  begin 
all  over.  I've  often  gone  before,  an'  vowed  to 
myself  as  I  sailed  down  the  Lough  there,  I'd  never 
come  back,  but  I  get  homesick  after  a  while,  an' 
back  I  come !" 

"You'd  wonder  at  that  now !" 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  249 

"Aye,  you  would,  but  sure  it's  tlie  way.  I'm 
quaren  fond  of  this  town.  It's  where  I  was  born 
an'  reared,  an'  I  don't  like  bein'  away  from  it  long. 
Sometimes  I  get  that  longin'  for  it,  that  I'd  near 
go  jumpin'  mad  with  joy  to  hear  a  drunk  Or'ngeman 
cursin'  the  Pope  in  North  Street  of  a  Saturday 
night.  It's  a  clean  town  this,  an'  the  people's 
dacent  enough  if  they  were  let  alone  by  politicians 
an'  scoundrels  like  that!  Are  you  a  Belfast  man 
yourself.'"' 

"I  live  in  Ball3'reagh.  I  was  born  in  Ardglass, 
but  I  have  friends  livin'  here !" 

"Them  places  is  all  right  for  a  trip  in  the  summer 
time,  but  it  doesn't  matter  where  you  go,  you're 
glad  to  get  back  here.  I'm  try  in'  to  make  up  my 
mind  now  to  go  to  Sunderland,  but  I  tell  you  it's 
the  hard  job,  an'  my  heart's  sore  with  the  thought 
of  it.    .    .    .    It's  not  near  clearin'  up  yet.'"' 

The  sky  had  become  the  color  of  ashes,  and 
the  rain  still  steadily  fell.  The  flags  had  little 
pools  of  water  lying  in  the  worn  places,  and  James 
could  hear  the  water   falling  into  the  gutters. 

"There's  no  sign  of  it  dryin' !"  he  said. 

The  stranger  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat, 
and  prepared  to  step  out  of  the  shelter. 

"There's  no  good  of  me  stoppin'  here  no  longer," 
he  said.  "I'll  away  home  to  my  tay.  I  wish  to 
my  God  I  was  at  my  work.  I  come  down  here  to 
the  quay  many's  a  time,  an'  look  across  the  river 
at  the  Yard,  an'  think  to  myself  it's  gran'  to  l>e  on 
a  boat,  puttin'  rivets  in  her  side,  an'  hearin'  the 
hammcrin'  all  round  you,  an'  then  to  see  the  boat 
bein'  launched.    ..." 


250  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Sure,  you  can  see  that  on  the  Tyne  or  up  the 
Clyde,"  James  interrupted. 

"Ah,  it's  not  the  same  thing.  They  can't  make 
the  boats  over  there  that  we  can !"  He  turned 
sliarply  to  James.  "Will  you  come  across  now 
to  the  quay  an'  have  a  look  at  the  Yard.''  There's 
a  liner  on  the  stocks  now — it'll  be  the  biggest  boat 
in  the  world  when  it's  afloat.  Sure,  it'll  occupy 
your  mind  while  the  rain's  on !" 

James  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat,  and  he 
and  the  stranger  ran  across  the  street,  and  passed 
through  the  sheds  until  they  came  to  a  break  on  the 
quay  where  they  could  see  the  shipyard  lying  on 
the  south  side  of  the  river. 

"Man,  it's  gran',  isn't  it.'"'  the  stranger  exclaimed 
enthusiastically. 

He  pointed  to  the  great  wooden  palisades  sunk 
in  the  mud  of  the  Lagan  and  rising  to  a  great  height 
in  the  air  so  that  they  looked  like  skeletons.  Inside 
the  palisades  were  roughly  shaped  lines  of  metal 
and  timber  that  would  soon  be  ships,  and  over  these 
little  black  figures  swarmed  continually. 

"It's  like  a  hive,"  said  the  stranger.  "That's 
what  it's  like.  Them  boats  is  the  honey,  an'  chaps 
like  me  is  bees !"  His  voice  thickened  as  he  went 
on.  "It  near  breaks  your  heart  to  think  a  man 
can't  do  his  work  there  in  peace  without  a  lot  of 
people  thumpin'  him  for  the  sake  of  his  religion. 
I  wouldn't  care  a  thrush's  mick  for  no  rain  or 
nothin'  if  I  was  only  over  there  rivetin'  that  boat ! 
But  I'll  have  to  be  goin'  to  Englan'  for  a  bit,  I'm 
afeard.  In  one  of  them  ships!"  He  made  a  motion 
with  his  head  toward  the  steamers  standing  at 
the  quays. 


MRS.  .AIARTIN'S  MAN  251 

They  turned  away  from  the  great  mass  of  stocks 
and  steel  plates  and  gantries  and  giant  cranes,  where 
the  little  black  figures  went  hammering,  and  passed 
through  the  sheds  where  piles  of  goods  from  all  lands 
lay,  and  came  out  again  into  the  broad  street. 

"I'm  shiverin'  with  the  coul',"  said  James, 
shuddering  as  lie  spoke.  "Will  you  come  an'  have 
a  drop  of  whisky  with  me?" 

"Ah,  no,  thank  you,"  replied  the  stranger,  "I 
never  touch  it.  It'll  soon  be  time  for  the  Island 
men  to  be  leavin'  their  work,  an'  I  want  to  get  home 
before  they  start  comin'  over  the  bridge  an'  the 
ferry.  I  can't  bear  to  see  them  comin'  from  the 
Yard,  an'  them  all  dirty  an'  sweatin',  an'  me  just 
wanderin'  about,  not  knowin'  what  the  hell  to  do 
with  myself.     So  long  to  you,  mister!" 

"So  long  to  you,  sir !"  James  said. 

The  stranger  went  away  quickly,  and  James, 
hunching  his  shoulders,  ran  through  the  rain  across 
the  street  to  the  porch  of  the  public-house.  "I 
wonder  will  they  be  home  yet,"  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  stood  shaking  the  raindrops  from  his  coat. 
He  took  his  coat  off  and  flapped  it  in  front  of  him, 
and  then  put  it  on  again.  "You  would  think  the 
sky  would  be  drained  dry  after  all  this  wet!"  he 
said  to  himself. 

The  sky  showed  no  sign  of  clearing.  The  rain 
still  descended  in   a  murky  stream. 

"I'm  perished,"  said  James,  and  then  he  turned 
toward  the  inner  door  of  the  public-house.  "I'll 
go  in  an'  have  a  drop  to  keep  me  warm,"  he  mur- 
mured. 


CHAPTER    XX 

Mrs.  Martin  and  Esther  set  off  to  see  the  shop 
in  the  Albert  Bridge  Road  immediately  after  they 
had  eaten  their  midday  meal.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  when  they  reached  it,  for  they  dallied 
on  the  way  to  look  in  the  Avindows  of  the  big  houses 
in  the  center  of  the  city,  and  while  they  were  dis- 
cussing the  purchase-price  of  the  business  with  the 
proprietor,  the  rain  began  to  fall.  They  examined 
the  stock  and  the  account  books,  and  made  inquiries 
about  the  amount  of  the  turnover  and  the  radius 
of  the  trade  and  the  number  of  competitors  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  had  private  conversations 
together  wliilc  the  proprietor  waited  in  another 
room.  Esther  had  practically  resolved  to  purchase 
the  business,  and  Mrs.  Martin  felt  inclined  to  sup- 
port her  in  her  resolve,  but  she  advised  her  not 
to  be  precipitate  in  making  a  decision.  She  might 
obtain  a  reduction  on  the  purchase-price  if  she 
showed  some  shyness  about  taking  over  the  business ; 
in  any  event,  it  would  be  well  to  obtain  a  report 
from  Messrs.  Stubbs'  Inquiry  Agency  before  making 
a  definite  decision. 

"An'  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  plan  to  come  over 
tv/o  or  three  times,  without  tellin'  him  you're  comin', 
an'  just  hang  about  the  street  watchin'  how  many 
people  comes  in  an'  out  of  the  shop.  I  would  take 
a  week  to  do  it  if  I  were  you,  an'  then  you'd  get 

252 


MRS.  :\IxVRTIN'S  MAN  %j^ 

a  fair  notion  of  what  sort  of  trade  he  does.  The 
good  nights  in  Belfast  is  Friday  an'  Saturday — 
the  Island  men  get  their  pay  on  Friday — an'  them 
nights'll  mcbbc  be  partic'lar  good,  but  I  wouldn't 
bother  much  about  them.  Fd  just  see  what  sort 
of  trade  he  does  on  the  other  nights.  His  accounts 
seem  all  right,  but  you  never  know  with  them  things. 
Some  people's  quaren  handy  at  makin'  up  their 
books !" 

Esther  told  the  owner  of  the  shop  that  she  was 
very  much  inclined  to  buy  the  business  from  him, 
but  that  she  would  like  to  take  a  week  to  think 
over  it  before  she  made  up  her  mind  one  way  or 
the  other.  She  thought  that  the  price  he  was  ask- 
ing for  it  was  too  high ;  and  so  on  and  so  forth. 
"Fll  let  you  know  for  certain  this  night  week," 
she  said.  The  rain  still  fell  steadily  and  so  the 
proprietor  of  the  shop  invited  them  to  stay  to  tea 
with  him  and  his  wife.  "Mebbe,  by  the  time  you've 
had  it,"  he  said,  "the  rain'll  be  stopped !"  They 
thanked  him  and  accepted  the  invitation,  and  so 
It  was  that  they  did  not  reach  Jamesey's  lodgings 
until  late  in  the  evening.  Esther  had  not  intended 
to  go  into  Mrs.  Luke's  house  with  Martha,  but 
when  she  heard  that  Jamescy  had  gone  to  bed,  she 
consented.  "He  was  tired  after  his  walk,"  Mrs. 
Luke  said,  "an'  he  got  a  bit  of  a  wettin'  in  the 
rain — it  was  nothin'  to  speak  of,  for  he  was  near 
home  when  it  came  on — but  he  thought  he'd  better 
go  upstairs  an'  lie  down!" 

"We've  had  our  tay,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Luke !" 
Mrs.  Martin  said,  as  she  and  Esther  went  into  the 
parlor  together,  and  sat  down  before  the  fire. 

They  s'ot  talking  of  the  shop  and  of  ways  of  im- 


254  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

proving  its  appearance,  "It's  too  crammed  up 
thegether,"  said  Mrs.  Martin.  "You  can't  see  the 
things,  they're  that  packed.  People's  eyes  can't 
take  in  a  lot  all  at  once!    ..." 

Esther  told  her  sister  of  her  dream  of  Jamesey's 
future,  and  of  her  grief  at  the  ruin  that  had  come 
upon  it  when  she  heard  that  he  could  not  bear  to 
have  her  staying  in  the  same  lodgings  as  himself. 

"I  near  thought  of  givin'  everything  up,"  she 
said,  "for  what  'ud  be  the  good  of  it,  if  I  hadn't 
Jamesey  to  share  it?" 

"It's  a  quare  thing,"  Mrs.  Martin  replied,  "how 
you've  set  your  heart  on  Jamesey,  Esther,  an'  you 
never  thought  a  great  deal  of  Aggie,  an'  now  James 
has  set  his  heart  on  Aggie,  an'  hardly  takes  no 
notice  of  his  son.  That's  quaren  quare!  I  wonder 
if  wee  Esther  had  lived,  would  she  'a'  been  my 
favorite!     You   mind  hei%  don't  you.'"' 

"I  do  indeed!"  Esther  answered. 

"She  was  the  nice  wee  child,  her!"  Martha  con- 
tinued, "an'  James  was  quarely  cut  up  when  she 
died!" 

"Aye,  he  was.     I  mind  that  well!" 

It  was  quite  dark  outside,  but  they  did  not  draw 
the  blind  nor  did  they  light  the  lamp.  They  sat 
in  the  firelight  and  talked  or  were  silent  as  was 
their  mood. 

"Do  you  think  Jamesey'll  ever  be  the  same  to 
me  again,  Martha.'*"  Esther  asked  after  they  had 
been  sitting  still  for  a  while, 

"I  don't  know,  Esther.  You'll  have  to  wait 
patient.     That's  all  you  can  do !" 

"I  wish  James  had  never  'a'  come  home," 
Esther  said  bitterly.      "We  were  quaren  contented 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  255 

thegether  til  he  come  an'  disturbed  us  all,  an'  now 
it'll  never  be  the  same  even  if  he  goes  awa}^ 
again ! 

"That's   true  enough!" 

"We  were  as  peaceable  as  we  could  be,  an'  all 
of  a  sudden  he  comes  an'  there's  nothin'  but  trouble 
an'  discontent!    ..." 

"An'  yet,  Esther,  he  does  nothin'  to  make  it, 
nothin'  that  you  can  see.  That's  what's  so  quare 
about  him.  He's  like  a  Jenny-Joe  of  a  man,  he's 
that  quiet  about  the  house  .  .  .  but  there's  some- 
thin'  about  him  that  causes  disturbance.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  exactly — it's  nothin'  he  does — it's 
just  him  himself  somehow!  .  .  .  You'd  be  sur- 
prised the  way  he  goes  on  about  Aggie.  She  can 
turn  him  round  her  wee  finger,  so  she  can,  an'  she 
orders  him  about,  an'  he  says  nothin'.  He  just 
does  what  she  tells  him.  He's  afeard  of  his  life  of 
her  findin'  out  anythin'  about  you  an'  him,  an' 
that  gives  me  a  quare  holt  on  him!"  She  paused 
when  she  said  this,  and  then  she  laughed  lightly. 
"I  get  a  kind  of  pleasure  out  of  that  feelin'," 
she  said.  "It  was  him  that  used  to  do  the  oiderin' 
about !"  Slie  told  again  the  story  of  his  triumpli 
over  old  Mrs.  Crothers.  "That  was  the  kind  of 
him,"  she  said,  "an'  now  it's  me  that  does  the 
orderin',  an'  Aggie,  too!  You  have  to  wait  a  long 
while  for  your  [)ayment  sometimes,  but  you  get  it 
one  day !  It's  not  what  I  expected.  I  thouglit 
he'd  be  like  himself.  ...  I  hardlv  know  what  I 
expected,  but  I  was  greatly  disa])poiiited  when  he 
did  come.  I  could  'a'  bore  it  rightly  if  he'd  gone 
Hway  again,  but  now  .  .  .  och,  well,  you  get  used 
to  things,  don't  you.''     You  think  you  would  never 


256  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

be  able  to  put  up  with  something,  an'  then  you  have 
to,  an'  you're  able  to  put  up  with  it  easy  enough, 
an'  then  in  a  while  you  wonder  you  ever  wanted 
anything  different !" 

She  put  a  lump  of  coal  on  the  fire,  and  poked  the 
cinders  and  dust  from  the  lower  bars. 

"The  rain's  never  stopped  yet,"  she  said,  glancing 
toward  the  window. 

"It's  set  in  for  the  night,  I'm  thinkin',"  said 
Esther. 

They  remained  quiet  for  a  long  time.  Esther  had 
slipped  from  her  chair  on  to  the  floor,  and  Avas 
sitting  with  her  head  leaning  against  Martha's  legs. 
They  watched  the  flames  curl  about  the  coal  until 
the  big  piece  which  Martha  had  just  put  on  the 
fire  broke. 

"Martha,"  Esther  said  at  last,  "did  you  know 
James  was  leavin'  you  that  time.^"' 

"Aye,  Esther,  he  toul'  me  he  was !" 

"An'  you  never  said  nothin'.f"' 

"What  'ud  'a'  been  the  good  of  sayin'  any- 
thing.?" 

"Did  he  tell  you  anything  about  me  when  he 
went .'"' 

"Aye!" 

"Was  it  that  he  didn't  want  me  no  more?" 

"Aye,  Esther !" 

"An'  you  never  toul'  me  that  either!" 

"No !" 

"You  had  a  kind  thought  for  me,  Martha,  but 
I  wonder  was  it  a  kind  thing  3'ou  done!" 

"Many's  a  time  I  Avonder  that  myself,  Esther. 
You  never  know !" 

"Does  Jamesey  know  his  da  left  you.'"' 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAIS  257 

"He's  guessed  it,"  Mrs.  Martin  replied.  "He 
couldn't  help  guessin'  it  when  his  da  come  home, 
but  I  won't  admit  it  to  him.  He  asks  me  questions 
about  his  da,  an'  sometimes  he  says  straight  out, 
'Ma,  did  mj  da  run  away  from  you?'  but  I  never 
tell  him.  I  know  he  knows  in  his  mind  that  James 
left  me,  but  I  have  a  kind  of  a  pride  that  keeps 
me  from  tellin'  him  plain  that  he  did.  Aggie  never 
guesses.  I  suppose  it's  because  her  da's  that 
wrapped  up  in  her,  an'  she  likes  him.  If  he  was 
to  treat  her  the  way  he  treats  Jamcse}?^,  I  daresaj'^ 
she'd  guess  quick  enough !" 

"I  daresay.  It's  quarc  you  never  find  out  the 
truth  about  people  til  you  begin  to  hate  them, 
Martha!" 

"Och,  indeed,  Esther,  an'  you  don't  find  it  out 
then.  You  never  find  it  out  about  no  one — yourself 
nor  nobody.  There's  a  hundred  men  in  one  man, 
an'  all  of  them  different,  an'  anyone  of  them  is 
him,  but  he's  not  any  one  of  them.  You'd  spend 
3^our  life  with  a  man  an'  not  know  a  bit  of  him, 
an'  he'd  spend  his  life  with  you,  an'  be  the  same. 
You  have  to  take  people  as  they  are  the  minute 
you  see  them,  an'  not  be  hoardin'  up  hate  against 
them  because  mebbe  they'll  not  be  the  same  the  next 
time  you  see  them !" 

"Ah,  sure,  that's  not  natural,  Martha.  You  can't 
help  your  feelin's,  an'  if  a  person's  done  you  a  bad 
turn,  you  want  to  do  them  one  back,  an'  anyway 
you  never  forget  it !" 

Mrs.  Martin  patted  her  on  the  head,  "Well, 
mebbe  you  don't,"  she  said,  "but  sure  you're  only 
wearin'  out  your  mind   remcmbcrin'  it!" 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  some  one  tapping  on  the 


S58  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

window,  and  she  looked  up  though  she  thought  that 
it  must  be  the  wind  blowing  the  laurel  leaves  against 
the  pane. 

"God  save  us,"  she  exclaimed,  starting  up  so 
suddenly  that  she  threw  Esther  on  to  the  floor, 
"there's  a  man  starin'  in  the  window!" 

She  Avalked  across  the  room,  and  as  she  did  so 
she  saw  that  the  man  was  her  husband.  "Och, 
it's  James!"  she  said.  "He  near  scared  the  wits 
out  of  me,  peepin'  in  hke  that.  I  thought  it  was 
a  ghost  or  something.  Sit  still  awhile,  Esther,  til 
I  let  him  in!" 

She  made  signs  through  the  glass  to  her  husband 
to  go  to  the  door,  and  then  drew  down  the  blind. 

"You'll  not  be  put  out  at  him  comin'  in,  will 
you,  Esther.?"  she  asked,  as  she  went  to  the  door 
of  the  room  to  let  her  husband  enter  the  house, 
"because  if  you  think  you  will,  I'll  take  him  in  the 
kitchen.  I  can't  think  what's  brought  liim  up.  Will 
you  be  awkward,  do  you  think.'"' 

Esther  hesitated.  She  did  not  wish  to  meet 
James  again,  but  she  did  not  wish  to  show  that 
she  did  not.  "I'll  be  all  right,"  she  said,  rising 
from  the  floor  on  which  she  had  lain  since  Martha 
had  started  up  from  her  seat,  and  going  to  an 
armchair  at  the  side  of  the  room.  "Mebbe,  he'll 
want  to  talk  private  to  you,  Martha!"  she  added. 
"If  he  does  I  can  go  on  up  home.  It'll  not  stop 
rainin'  the  night,  an'  I  might  as  well  go  now  as 
later !" 

"Wait  a  while  an'  we'll  see !"  Mrs.  Martin  replied, 
going  to  the  street  door. 

Esther  wondered  what  she  should  say  when 
James  came  in.     Would  it  be  better  for  her  to  sit 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  ^lAN  259 

still  in  the  shadow,  saying  nothing,  or  would  it  be 
l)€tter  to  speak  civilly  to  him,  bidding  him  good- 
evening  and  even  asking  him  hoAv  his  health  was, 
inquiring  after  Aggie,  and  then  take  her  leave  of 
them?  .  .  .  While  she  was  wondering,  she  heard 
Martha's  voice  in  the  hall  in  angry  expostulation, 
and  then  the  door  of  the  parlor  opened  abruptl}', 
and  James  reeled  into  the  room,  staring  stupidly 
about  him  as  he  blinked  before  the  light,  and 
breathing  heavily.  She  stood  up  at  his  entry, 
for  she  saw  that  he  was  drunk,  and  she  knew  that 
he  had  come  with  no  good  will  to  her.  Martha 
followed  him  into  the  room,  shutting  the  door 
behind  her. 

"This  is  a  nice  state  of  affairs,"  she  said  to  him 
in  an  angry  tone.  "Comin'  here  like  that,  an' 
bringin'  discredit  on  us.  What'll  Mrs.  Luke  think 
if  she  hears  Jamesey's  da  come  to  sec  him  dead 
drunk?" 

He  ignored  what  his  wife  said  to  him,  and  stag- 
gered across  the  room  to  where  Esther  was  standing 
silently  waiting. 

"Get  out  to  hell  er  this !"  he  mumbled  thickly 
at  her. 

His  foot  caught  in  a  goat  skin  mat  and  he 
tripped  forward,  but  did  not  fall.  Esther  felt 
afraid  of  him,  but  even  in  her  fear  she  felt  like 
laughing  as  he  staggered  over  the  mat.  She 
wondered  that  Martha,  standing  with  scowling 
countenance  against  the  door,  did  not  burst  out 
into  roars. 

"Quit  to  hell  er  this,"  he  was  saying  to  her  again. 
But  how  could  she  take  any  notice  of  him  when 
he    was    falling    about    the    room    in    that    foolish 


S60  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

fashion?  If  he  did  not  mind  what  he  was  doing, 
he  would  have  the  lamp  over  as  sure  as  death,  and 
mebbe  set  the  house  on  fire,  and  Jamesey  upstairs 
in  his  bed.  ...  If  the  house  were  to  go  on  fire,  and 
she  could  save  Jamesey's  life,  and  her  mebbe  lose 
her  own  .  .  .  but  then  she  wouldn't  be  able  to 
start  the  shop.    ,    .    . 

"D'you  hear  me.^"'  she  heard  James  shouting 
at  her,  and  then  she  felt  his  hand  on  her  arm,  and 
he  was  dragging  her  across  the  room  toward  the 
door. 

"Mind  what  you're  doin',  James !"  Martha 
exclaimed,  coming  to  them,  and  disengaging  his 
hand  from  her  arm.  "You're  makin'  the  fine 
show  of  yourself,  I  must  say.  What  brought  you 
here  at  all.?" 

"Let — let  her  go  hell  er  this !"  he  replied.  "See ! 
Thash  all !  See !  Go  hell  er  this  !  Don't  want  her 
interferin' — interferin'  my  fam'ly,  see!  Thash  why! 
Now,  du  unnerstan',  eh?" 

"Ah,  you're  talkin'  blether!"  Martha  snapped 
at  him.  "An'  if  you're  goin'  to  start  gettin' 
drunk,  James  Martin,  let  me  tell  you  it'll  not  be 
long  afore  I  clear  you  out  of  Ballyreagh.  D'you 
hear  me,  man?" 

"Couldn't  .  .  .  clear  me  out,  see!  Wouldn't 
.  .  .  go — go !  Nothin'  to  do  Avith  you,  see !  My 
business,  see!  My  business!  Don't  want  her 
interfere  my  fam'ly  no  more.  No  more.  Aggie 
or  no  one!  Jamesey  neither!"  He  turned  to 
Esther.  "Come  on  er  that !  Don't  wanna 
speaksh  to  you  again,  du  hear?  See!  Don't 
wanna ! .    .    . " 

She    pushed    him    from    her.      "Leave    me    alone, 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  261 

James  Martin!"  she  said.  "I  don't  want  you 
near  me !" 

He  crumpled  up  on  the  sofa,  and  lay  there  for 
a  few  moments  glaring  at  her  fatuously.  "Thash 
nicsh  thing  to  do !"  he  mumbled.  "]Mush  say !"  He 
got  up  awkwardly,  and  would  have  gone  to  her 
again  but  Martha  interposed.  She  took  hold  of  his 
arm,  and  led  him  to  a  seat  at  the  fire  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room  from  that  where  Esther  was. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  "an'  try  an'  behave  yourself. 
Does  Aggie  know  where  you  are?" 

He  said  that  Aggie  imagined  he  had  gone  for  a 
walk  to  Newtownards,  and  that  he  would  not  return 
home  until  late. 

"Well,  you've  gone  a  bit  fardher  nor  she 
imagined,"  his  wife  replied.  "You'll  not  get  home 
the  night,  an'  you  in  that  state.  I  wouldn't  for 
the  world  anyone  in  Ballyreagh  seen  you  like  that. 
What  would  Aggie  say  if  you  were  to  go  in  the 
liouse  an'  you  drunk,  eh.^  I'd  like  you  to  tell 
me  that!" 

He  understood  the  purport  of  her  questions, 
and  he  shook  his  head  at  her.  "Not  goin'  home 
like  this!"  he  said.  "Not  like  this!  Go  home 
to-inorra — sober  again,  see!  Thash  when  I  go 
home  I" 

"Oh,  indeed!"  she  said,  standing  before  him 
with  her  hands  resting  on  her  hips.  "So  you're 
goin'  home  the  morrow  are  you.  An'  where 
are  you  goin'  to  stay  the  night,  I'd  like  to  be  in- 
formed." 

"Stop  here!    ..." 

"Well,  indeed,  you'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 
Mrs.    Luke    wouldn't    liavo    you    in    her    house,    an' 


262  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

I  wouldn't  blame  her  neither.  An'  what  about 
Aggie  left  by  her  lone  in  Ballyreagh?  I  suppose 
you  never  considered  that.''  A  ^^oung  slip  of  a 
girl  left  by  herself  in  the  house.  An'  then  you 
go  about  lettin'  on  you  love  her!" 

"Do  love  her.     'Strue's  death!    ..." 

"Aye,  it's  a  quare  kind  of  love  that  leaves  her 
to  go  an'  get  drunk.  Are  you  not  ashamed  of 
yourself  to  be  disgracin'  your  daughter  that  you're 
always  makin'  so  much  of.'*    .    .    ." 

"I'm  not  disgrashin'  her.  I  didn't  mean  to 
get  drunk.  See?  Thash's  fact.  I  didn't 
mean !    .    .    . " 

"Well,  you  are  anyway,  whether  you  meant  to 
or  not!" 

"I  come  here  to  tell  her  go  'way — go  'way 
althegether — never  come  back  no  more.  Don't 
want  her  interferin' !    .    .    . " 

"Ah,  well,  you  can't  have  everything  you  want, 
an'  Esther's  not  goin'  to  put  herself  out  to  suit  you, 
my  man.  Sit  down,  Esther  dear,  til  we  talk  this 
matter  over!" 

"I'd  better  be  goin'  on  up  home,  Martha,  hadn't 
I.'"'     Esther  said. 

"You  will  not,  indeed.  Sit  down  an'  content 
yourself  awhile !  He's  not  in  a  fit  state  to  talk 
about  anything,  it's  true,  but  it's  the  best  sort  of 
condition  I  can  get  him  in  now,  an'  you're  mebbc 
unlikely  to  meet  again  foi-  a  long  time!"  She 
turned  to  her  husband  and  spoke  to  him  sharply. 
"Sit  up,  James,  an'  trj^  an'  sober  yourself!"  She 
put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  coat.  "Dear 
bless  me,"  she  exclaimed,  "you're  ringin'  wet. 
Here,  off  with   your  coat  with  you !     You  must  be 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  263 

demented  to  be  wandeiin'  about  in  that  state! 
She  caught  liold  of  him  and  hauled  l.im  into  a 
standing  position.  "I  wonder  the  peelers  didn't 
lift  you,"  she  added,  as  she  tried  to  take  his 
coat  off. 

He  could  not  stand  still,  and  so  she  could  not 
release  him  from  his  coat. 

"Here,  Esther,"  she  said,  as  she  tried  to  hold 
him  straight,  "come  on,  an'  lend  me  a  hand  with 
him !" 

"I'd  rather  not  handle  him,  Martha!    ..." 

"It'll  do  you  no  harm  to  help  me  off  with  his 
coat.  You'd  do  that  much  for  your  bitterest 
enemy  if  he  was  in  need  of  a  hand !  Here,  pull 
his  arm  out  of  the  sleeve  while  I  keep  a  holt  on 
him !" 

Esther  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  between  them 
they  freed  the  helpless  man  from  his   sodden   coat. 

They  let  him  fall  back  into  the  chair,  and  he  lay 
there,  with  his  head  hanging  loosely  on  to  his 
chest, 

"He'll  be  asleep  on  us,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  "if 
we're  not  careful.  Did  ever  you  see  such  an  a  man 
in  all  your  born  days?  His  trousers  is  ringin'  too, 
and  his  boots !"  She  knelt  down  and  took  his  boots 
off  and  laid  them  in  front  of  the  fire  to  dry.  "He'll 
be  in  a  fever,"  she  continued,  "if  he's  let  go  out 
in  them  wet  trousers!"  She  stood  up  and  con- 
sidered what  she  should  do.  His  eyes  were  closed 
and  his  head  was  nodding,  and  his  breath  came 
in  loud  regular  grunts.  "There's  nothin'  for  it," 
she  said  at  last,  "but  for  him  to  stop  here  the 
night.  I'll  go  an'  tell  Mrs.  I.ukc.  We  can  mebbe 
make  up  a  bed  for  him  hcrf  in   Hie  jiarlor,  an'  leave 


264  MRS.  Mx\RTIN'S  MAN 

liim  to  sleep  off  the  drink!"  She  walked  to  the 
door,  holding  her  hand  to  her  cheek  as  if  she  were 
still  pondering  over  her  course  of  action.  "Ochone," 
she  said,  going  out  of  the  room,  "it's  a  quare  trouble 


a  man  is !" 


Esther  stood  before  the  fire,  gazing  at  the 
drunken  man  sprawling  on  the  chair.  He  had  come 
to  town  to  wreck  her  happiness,  not  knowing  that 
his  son  had  already  wrecked  it,  but  she  felt  no 
anger  against  him  now.  She  began  to  pity  him. 
Something  in  that  dull  brutish  mind  was  making 
an  effort  to  capture  the  love  of  a  young  girl  to 
appear  fine  and  manly  in  her  eyes.  "That's  why 
he  wants  to  be  redd  of  me,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Aggie  Avould  mebbe  turn  from  him  if  she  knew 
about  us !"  She  moved  from  the  fire,  and  stood  over 
him.  He  slipped  a  little  in  the  chair  as  she  did  so, 
and  she  thought  that  he  was  about  to  tumble  on  to 
the  floor.  She  caught  hold  of  him  and  lifted  him 
gently  into  a  secure  position.  "You're  a  poor  bar- 
gain for  any  woman,  James  Martin !"  she  murmured 
as  she  did  so. 

She  bent  down  and  felt  his  socks,  and  then  she 
took  them  off.  "They're  wet  enough  to  perish  him," 
she  thought,  as  she  did  so. 

She  heard  the  noise  of  the  door  being  opened 
wliile  she  was  removing  th.e  second  sock. 

"I'm  takin'  his  socks  off,"  she  said,  without  look- 
ing up.     "His  feet's  as  coul'  as  ice !" 

She  put  the  socks  in  the  fender,  and  then  turned 
to  look  at  her  sister,  who,  she  imagined,  had  en- 
tered the  room;  but  Martha  was  not  there.  It  was 
Jamesey,  pale  and  full  of  sleep,  who  stood  in  the 
doorway,  staring  in   astonishment  at   the  spectacle 


MRS.  ?,IARTIN'S  MAN  265 

of  his  aunt  kneeling  on  the  floor  attendmg  to  his 
father. 

"I  thought  my  ma  was  here!"  he  said 
stupidly. 

"She's  in  the  kitchen,  talkin'  to  Mrs.  Luke, 
Jamesey  !     Your  da's  here!" 

He  did  not  reply.  He  stood  staring  at  her  as  if 
he  could  not  believe  that  he  was  not  dreaming. 

"Is  it  you?"  he  said. 

"Aye,  Jamesey  I" 

He  shut  the  door,  and  leaned  against  the  head  of 
the  sofa.  He  stood  there  rubbing  his  eyes,  and 
then  he  turned  to  her  and  said.  "What  brought 
you  hcre.^" 

She  did  not  answer.  "I'll  go  if  you  like,  Jame- 
sey," she  said  instead. 

"What  brought  you  here.'"'  he  repeated. 

"I  came  with  your  ma!" 

"An'  him — what  brought  him  here.?" 

"I  don't  know,  Jamesey.  He  only  came  a  wee 
while  ago !" 

He  did  not  speak  to  her  immediately.  Then  his 
anger  swept  through  him,  and  he  walked  toward 
his  father. 

"Well,  he  can  go  on  out  of  this  again  as  quick 
as  he  likes,"  he  said,  "an'  you  with  him !" 

She  caught  hold  of  his  arm,  and  restrained  him. 
"Don't  Jamesey,"  she  said,  "he's  asleep!    ..." 

"He's  drunk,  that's  what  he  is.  You  can  see 
it!    .    .    ." 

"Well,  mebbe,  Jamesey,  but  don't  disturb  him, 
it's  a  pity  of  him,  an'  your  ma'll  tell  you  why  he 
come.      Don't   be   puttin'    yourself   out    about   me. 


'266  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

I'll  go  now,  an'  I'll  not  trouble  you  again  if  you 
don't  want  me,  though.    .     .     ." 

She  stopped  in  her  speech,  and  looked  at  him, 
but  his  ej'^es  had  no  kindness  in  them,  and  so  she 
turned  away. 

"I'm  sorry  I  bothered  you,  Jamesey,"  she 
said,  and  she  went  to  the  door.  "Good-night, 
son! 

He  did  not  answer. 

"Had  you  not  better  get  back  to  your  bed.'"'  she 
said,  opening  the  door.  "You'll  get  your  death 
standin'  there  in  the  draught !" 

He  did  not  speak  nor  did  he  move. 

"Good-night,  son !"  she  said  again. 

But  still  he  did  not  answer. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

Mrs.  Martin  came  into  the  room,  carrying  bed- 
clothes and  pillows.  "You're  not  goin',  Esther?" 
she  said,  and  then  she  saw  Jamcsey.  "Son,  dear," 
she  exclaimed,  "what  are  you  doin'  downstairs,  an' 
you  not  dressed?" 

"Ah,  Fm  all  right,"  Jamesey  answered. 

She  threw  the  bedclothes  on  to  the  sofa,  and 
went  up  to  him  and  took  hold  of  his  arm.  "Away 
to  your  bed  this  minute,"  she  said  sharply.  "I've 
just  got  you  better,  an'  now  you  want  to  throw 
yourself  back  again.  Quit  actin'  the  child, 
Jamesey !" 

He  pulled  his  arm  from  her  grasp,  and  spoke 
petulantly  to  her.  "I  tell  you  I'm  all  right.  Fm 
not  goin'  to  bed  a  while  yet.  What's  my  da  doin' 
here,  an'  her?"  He  pointed  with  his  thumb  at 
Esther. 

"Well,  if  you'll  not  go  to  your  bed,"  she  said, 
"you  can  just  sit  as  close  to  the  fire  as  you  can 
get.  Here !  Sit  down  now  and  warm  yourself,  an' 
don't  be  stirrin'  til  I  tell  you.  I'm  going  to  make 
your  da's  bed!    ..." 

He  got  up  from  the  chair  into  which  she  had 
forced  hlin  and  shouted  at  her  in  astonishment. 
"Bed!     Is  he  stopi)in'  here?    ..." 

"Aye,  indeed  he  is.  You  see  rightly,  don't  you, 
that  he's  not  in  a  fit  state  to  be  let  out  of  the  house. 

267 


^6S  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

Sit  doAvn  now,  like  a  good  lad,  an'  don't  be  upsettin' 
yourself  about  notbin' !" 

She  made  him  sit  down  again,  and  he  sat  quietly 
in  the  armchair,  gazing  into  the  fire,  as  if  he  were 
bemused. 

"Now,  Esther,  where  are  you  goin'?"  Mrs. 
Martin  demanded  of  her  sister  who  still  stood 
in  the  doorway.  "Shut  the  door  an'  come  on 
in.  Dear  knows,  I  have  enough  to  do  without 
spendin'  the'  whole  night  coaxin'  one  an'  another 
to  sit  down  a  while  an'  behave  like  intelligent  peo- 
ple!" 

Esther  shut  the  door,  and  stood  with  her  back 
to  it, 

"Jamesey  doesn't  want  me  to  stop  here,"  she 
said,  "an'  so  I  was  just  goin'  to  my  lodgln's !" 

"There's  lots  of  things  Jamesey  doesn't  want,  but 
he  has  to  have  them.  Sit  down  til  I'm  ready  to 
talk  to  you  botli.  Draw  that  chair  up  to  the  fire 
there !" 

"Jamesey !    .    .    . " 

"Och,  quit  clatterin'  about  Jamesey.  What  is 
he — only  a  lump  of  a  lad  that's  as  headstrong  as 
his  da  was  before  him.  Am  I  to  spend  my  days 
givin'  in  til  one  man  an'  then  til  another.  I  give 
in  til  his  da,  an'  what  was  my  thanks  for  it?  He 
left  me!    .    .    ." 

Jamesey  jumped  up  from  his  seat  as  she  spoke. 
"Then  it  is  true,  ma!  I  knew  it  all  the  time.  He 
run  away  from  you!    ..." 

"Aye,  indeed  he  did,  Jamesey,  but  he  come 
crawlin'  back  again.  There's  a  lot  of  his  temper 
in  you,  my  son,  an'  3'ou'd  do  well  not  to  be  followin' 
his    example    for   fear   you   have   to    come    crawlin' 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  260 

back  one  time.  You're  proud,  Jamesey,  not  that 
I  mind  that,  for  pride's  a  good  thing  in  a  man 
or  a  woman,  but  you're  worse  nor  proud — you're 
self-contented.  You're  settin'  up  yourself  as  judge 
of  your  da  an'  judge  of  your  Aunt  Esther  an'  judge 
of  me — aye  you  are,  Jamesey,  you  knoAv  you  are !" 
He  had  made  a  gesture  to  denote  that  this 
was  not  true,  but  she  would  not  let  him  speak. 
"An'  what  is  it  at  all?  Only  hurt  pride, 
that's  all.  It's  me  that  has  the  right  to  be 
judgin' — not  you!  An'  I  don't  want  to  judge  no 
one !" 

She  spread  the  bedclothes  on  the  sofa,  and  settled 
the  pillows  comfortably,  and  while  she  did  so,  no 
one  spoke.  There  were  no  sounds  in  the  room 
but  the  heavy,  dull  snoring  of  the  drunken  man, 
and  the  crackling  of  wood  on  the  fire,  and  the  rustle 
of  the  bedclothes  as  Mrs.  Martin  beat  them  into  a 
comfortable  shape.  Esther  sat  between  Jamesey  and 
his  father,  but  she  did  not  look  at  either  of  theuj, 
and  Jamesey  leaned  forward  so  that  his  head  rested 
on  his  hands  that  were  supported  by  his  knees.  Mrs. 
Martin  stood  back  from  the  sofa  to  look  at  the  bed 
she  had  made,  and  then,  satisfied  that  it  would 
serve  for  her  husband,  she  turned  away  from  it  and 
came  to  the  fire. 

"Your  da's  drunk,"  she  said  to  Jamesey.  "Well, 
who's  hurt  the  most  by  that.''  Not  yovi.  Not 
Esther.  Not  Aggie.  Not  him,  either,  but  me. 
I'm  hurt,  not  you!  But  you're  not  thinkin' 
of  me,  none  of  you.  Your  da's  thinkin'  of  Aggie ! 
I'lsther's  thinkin'  of  you!  You're  thinkin'  of 
yourself  .  .  .  yes,  you  are,  fJamesey.  An'  what 
am   I  thinkin'   of?     Aye,   indeed!      I'd  be  the  poor 


2T0  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

woman  if  I  was  to  wander  about  thinkin'  of  my 
troubles  an'  mj  pride  an'  how  I  was  hurt  by  this 
one  an'  that  one.  I'm  too  ould  to  be  hatin' 
people,  Jamesey,  an'  when  you're  my  age,  son, 
you'll  not  be  hatin'  people  unless  your  mind's  a 
rotten  mind.  Your  wee  hates'll  just  drop  off  you 
like  an  ould  shawl  that  slips  from  your  shoulders 
when  you're  not  lookin',  an'  you'll  be  knowln' 
well  that  your  pleasure  is  to  be  goin'  about  with 
as  good  a  heart  as  you  can.  You're  in  anger  against 
your  da,  but  what  good'll  that  do?  Am  I  to  turn 
him  away  because  3'ou  don't  like  him?  Am  I  to 
set  him  wanderin'  the  world  til  you're  tired  of  hatin' 
him?  An'  your  Aunt  Esther,  am  I  never  to  say 
a  word  til  her  again  because  you've  fell  out  with 
her?  Do  you  think  because  you're  not  satisfied 
with  people,  that  I'm  not  to  be  satisfied,  too, 
an'  that  I  must  fall  out  with  them  when  you 
do!    .    .    ." 

"Ma,  you're  not  fair !    .    .    . " 

"I'm  fair  enough.  Your  da's  afeard  of  his  life  of 
Aggie  gettin'  to  know  about  him  an'  your  Aunt 
Esther,  an'  he  doesn't  want  me  to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  her,  nor  her  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  you  or  any  of  us.  That's  what  he  come 
up  to  Belfast  for,  to  make  Esther  go  away  from 
us.  He  was  orderin'  her  out  of  the  house  when  he 
first  come  in.  All  of  yous  orderin'  an'  orderin' 
an'  never  askin'  my  leave.  Well,  there'll  be  an  end 
of  that,  master  James,  an'  your  da'll  know  it, 
too,  when  he's  sober.  I'm  the  master  in  my  family, 
an'  it's  me  that  decides  what's  to  be  done  in  my  house 
—not  you  nor  your  da  nor  no  one.  If  I  want  your 
da   at   home,    I'll   have   him   an'    I'll   not   ask   your 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  271 

leave.  If  I  don't  want  him,  I'll  turn  him  out,  an' 
I'll  not  ask  Aggie's  leave.  An'  if  I  want  to  have 
Esther  near  me,  I'll  not  ask  the  leave  of  any  of 
you  to  have  her,  your  da  nor  you  nor  no 
one!  .  .  ."  She  stopped  suddenly  in  her  tirade, 
and  went  to  her  husband.  "Here,  Jamesey,"  she 
said,  "come  an'  give  me  a  hand  to  carry  him  to  the 
sofa.     He's  like  a  lump  of  lead !" 

"Will  I  help  you,  Martha?"  Esther  said 
meekly. 

"Aye,  you  can  lend  a  hand,  too.  It'll  need  the 
whole  of  us !" 

They  lifted  the  sleeping  man  and  carried  him 
to  the  sofa.  He  muttered  incoherently  as  they  did 
so,  but  he  did  not  wake  up. 

"You  can  pull  off  his  trousers,  Jamesey,"  Mrs. 
Martin  said,  "an'  me  an'  your  Aunt  Esther'll  sit  at 
the  fire  while  you  do  it.  They're  wet  through,  an' 
he'll  be  foundered  if  they're  let  stay  on  him  all  night. 
Dear  knows  where  he's  been  wanderin'  since  he  left 
home.  I'll  have  to  send  word  to  Aggie  that  her  da's 
here  or  she'll  be  frightened  out  of  her  life.  I'll 
get  Mrs.  Luke's  wee  lad  to  go  down  to  the  General 
for  me  an'  send  off  a  telegram  to  her !"  She  went 
out  of  the  room  as  she  spoke. 

Esther  stood  with  her  back  to  the  sofa  where 
Jamesey  was  attending  to  his  father.  She  heard  him 
wrap  the  bedclothes  round  the  sleeper,  and  then  she 
heard  him  say,  "He'll  do  rightly!"  She  went  over 
to  the  sofa  and  joined  Jamesey.  "Will  he  be  safe 
there,  do  you  think?"  she  said.  "Are  you  not  afeard 
of  him  tumblin'   off?" 

He  walked  away  from  her,  and  sat  down  in  the 
chaii-   in   which   iiis    f.illn'j-  had   lain.      "It'll   do   him 


272  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

no  harm  if  he  does  fall  off,"  he  said.  "It'll  mebbe 
sober  him!" 

She  saw  that  he  was  not  responsive  to  her,  and 
so  she  did  not  say  any  more.  She,  too,  sat  down 
again  in  silence  to  wait  for  Martha's  return.  In 
a  little  while,  Mrs.  Martin  came  back.  She  looked 
at  her  husband  to  make  sure  that  he  was  well 
wrapped  up,  and  then  she  joined  her  sister  and  her 
son. 

"I'm  sorry  I  spoke  so  bitter  to  you,  Jamesey!" 
she  said.  "I  let  out  more  nor  I  meant  to  say,  but 
you  provoked  me.  .  .  .  Well,  it  doesn't  matter 
now.  I  wonder  if  it's  any  good  sayin'  anything 
more  the  night.  Our  tempers  is  not  quiet,  an'  we're 
bitter  with  one  another,  an'  disturbed  by  your  da. 
.  .  .  What  was  it  you  come  down  for,  son.'* 
You  were  wantin'  me  for  something,  weren't 
you.?" 

He  nodded  his  head,  but  he  did  not  tell  her  of 
his  want.     He  sat  moodily  gazing  into  the  fire. 

"What  was  it,  son,  you  were  wantin'.'"'  she  re- 
peated. 

"Ah,  it  doesn't  matter  now,"  he  replied. 

"Yes,  it  does  matter.    ..." 

"I  was  only  wantin'  a  wee  crack  with  you,  that 
was  all.  I  hadn't  seen  you  since  the  mornin', 
and  I  was  tired  of  bein'  upstairs  by  my  lone,  so  I 
thought  I'd  come  down  a  while  an'  talk  to 
you,  an'  when  I  opened  the  door  you  weren't 
here!" 

"No,"  Esther  interjected,  "he  didn't  find  you  here, 
Martha,  he  only  found  me  an'  his  da.  Don't  be 
sayin'  anything  hard  til  him.     I'd  be  right  an'  sorry 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAS  27S 

to  think  I  brought  disturbance  between  the  two  of 
you.    ..." 

"You'll  never  do  that,  Esther.  Me  an'  Jamesey's 
too  near  one  another  for  anybody  to  separate  us, 
aren't  we,  son.'"' 

"Aye,  ma !" 

They  were  silent  again,  and  then  Esther  got  up 
from  her  seat. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I'd  better  be  goin'.  I'm 
doin'  no  good  sittin'  here.  .  .  .  I'm  only  doin' 
harm!" 

Martha  rose,  too.  "We  can  do  no  more  the 
night,"  she  said.  "We'll  see  what  the  morrow'll 
bring  up.  But  don't  be  makin'  little  of  yourself 
that  way,  Esther.  Talkin'  about  you  doin'  harm, 
an'  blether  like  that.  I'll  come  to  the  door  with 
you,  an'  if  it's  not  wet,  I'll  mebbe  walk  up  to  the 
head  of  the  street !" 

"Ah,  don't  bother  yourself,  Martha.  Sure,  I 
know  my  way!"  Esther  said.  She  looked  at  Jamesey 
for  a  few  seconds,  but  he  made  no  sign  to  show 
that  he  was  aware  that  she  was  about  to  go  home, 
She  went  up  to  him  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 
"Good-night,  Jamesey !"  she  said. 

He  stirred  uneasily  in  his  seat,  and  then  looked 
up  at  her  awkwardly.  "Eh?"  he  said,  not  because 
he  had  not  heard  what  she  said,  but  to  cover  his 
confusion. 

"Good-night,  Jamesey !" 

"Oh  !  Good-night!"  he  replied,  turning  away  with- 
out taking  her  hand. 

She  waited  for  a  moment  or  two.  hoping  that  he 
would  relent,  but  he  did  not  do  so,  and  then  she 
went  out  of  the  room,  followed  by  Martha. 


274  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"I  near  checked  him  for  his  unmannerliness, 
Esther!"  Mrs.  Martin  whispered  to  her,  as  thej 
stood  in  tlie  hall,  "but  I  thought  I'd  better  not 
say  anything.  It'll  be  best  for  him  to  have  his 
fill  of  anger,  an'  then  he'll  mebbe  alter.  You  do 
no  good  by  talkin'  to  people  when  they're  like  that. 
You  stir  them  up,  an'  make  them  worse.  You 
know  yourself  that  when  you've  some  terrible  grief 
on  your  mind,  nothin's  no  good  but  to  be  let  you 
cry  your  eyes  out,  an'  it's  that  way  with  Jamesey. 
A  thing's  happened  to  him  that  he  never  thought 
of,  an'  it's  made  him  feel  sick  in  his  mind,  but 
he's  a  healthy  fellow,  Jamesey,  an'  he'll  be  better 
in  a  while !"  She  opened  the  door  and  looked  out 
into  the  street.  "Dear  bless  us,"  she  said,  "it's 
still  rainin'.  I  hope  to  my  goodness  that  wee  lad 
of  ]Mrs.  Lukcs'll  not  get  a  drenchin'.  I  give  him 
coppers  to  take  the  ti'am,  but  wee  lads  is  never 
dependable,  an'  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  but  he'll 
Avalk  the  length  of  the  way  there  an'  back, 
an'  put  the  coppers  in  his  pocket!  Will  you  be 
all  right,  do  you  think,  Esther?  Wrap  yourself 
well  up!" 

"I'm  rightly,  thank  you,  Martha!" 
"Will  I  lend  3'ou  an  umbrella  or  anything?" 
"Aye,   I  would   thank   you   for  the   loan   of   one. 
I'll  bring  it  back  first  thing  in  the  mornin'." 

"Come  in  as  soon  as  you  can,"  she  said,  handing 
the  umbrella  to  Esther.  "We'll  have  a  long  talk 
thcgethcr,  James  an'  you  an'  Jamesey  an'  me  an' 
see  if  we  can't  make  some  sort  of  peace  instead  of 
all  this  wranglin'  an'  ill-feelin',  for  dear  knows,  we 
have  our  lives  before  us  yet,  an'  it's  a  poor  pros- 
pect    if    we've     nothin'    better     to    think    of    nor 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  275 

fightin'  an'  bad  blood !  Good-night  to  you, 
Esther !" 

"Good-night,  Martha!" 

"Mind  you  hold  your  dress  up  out  of  the  wet. 
The  road's  runnin'  with  the  water !" 

"Aye,  I'll  mind  m3'self.    Good-night  to  you!" 

"Good-night,  Esther !" 

She  stood  in  the  doorway  for  a  few  moments, 
looking  after  her  sister,  and  then  she  shut  the  door 
and  returned  to  the  parlor.  James  was  snoring 
lustily,  and  her  son  was  sitting  in  the  same  position 
as  he  was  when  she  left  the  room.  She  went  over 
to  her  husband,  and  put  her  fingers  on  his  nostrils. 
"Quit  that  noise,  you  ould  dundcrer  you  I"  she  said. 
He  turned  on  his  side,  and  shut  his  mouth,  and 
slept  quietly. 

"It's  awful  to  hear  a  man  snorin'  that  way,"  she 
said,  going  to  her  seat,  and  drawing  it  near  to 
•Tamesey.  "It  would  near  drive  you  distracted  to 
live  in  that  noise !" 

He  did  not  make  any  answer,  but  still  sat  staring 
in  front  of  him. 

"It's  a  soft  night,"  she  said.  "I  hope  it'll  clear 
up  in  the  mornin' !" 

He  turned  his  head  as  if  he  had  suddenly  become 
aware  of  her  presence.  "Is  it  still  rainin'.'"'  he 
asked. 

"Aye.  The  sky's  floodin'.  Did  you  have  a  good 
walk  the  day,  son.^" 

"I  had  a  bit  of  a  walk!" 

"You  didn't  go  air  tire  yourself,  I  hope,  or  get 
drenched?" 

"No  I" 

"That's    right.      Diaw   nearer   to   the   fire.      You 


276  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

haven't  got  your  slippers  on.    Now,  isn't  that  foolish 
of  jou!     Where  are  they?" 

"They're  upstairs  in  the  bedroom,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  put  your  feet  on  the  fender  there,  an' 
keep  them  warm  til  I  get  them  for  you.  I'll  not  be 
a  minute !" 

"Sure,  you  needn't  trouble!" 

"What  trouble  is  it.?  Content  yourself  now  til  I 
come  back!" 

She  returned  in  a  little  while  with  the  slippers  and 
put  them  on  his  feet.  "That'll  do  you  rightly,"  she 
exclaimed  when  she  had  finished. 

"Thank  you,  ma!"  he  said,  and  then  was  silent 
again. 

"I  went  an'  had  a  look  at  that  shop  your  Aunt 
Esther  was  talkin'  about,"  she  remarked  after  a  few 
moments.  "It's  a  fine-lookin'  place.  I  think  she'll 
buy  it.  The  man  wants  a  tidy  price  for  it,  but  I 
think  he'll  mebbe  take  less!"  She  paused,  but  he 
did  not  make  any  comment.  "It  has  a  good  many 
rooms  in  it,"  she  added,  "more  nor  she  can  use. 
She'll  be  quaren  lonesome  in  a  big  house  like  that! 
Would  you  like  a  wee  drop  of  hot  milk  or 
anything .'"' 

"No,  thank  you,  ma !" 

"Will  I  not  get  you  a  bit  of  soda  bread  and  a 
drop  of  tay.'"' 

"I  don't  want  anything,  thank  you!" 
"IMebbe  you're  as  well  without  it.  There's  some 
people  doesn't  sleep  well  if  they  take  anj^thing  to 
eat  before  goin'  to  bed.  It  would  be  quaren  near 
your  work,  that  shop.  Are  you  sure  you  don't 
want  anything?" 
"Aye,  ma!" 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  277 

"All  right,  then !  Dear-a-dcar,  but  that's  a  wild 
night.  Do  you  hear  the  wind  rattlln'  the  windows, 
an'  the  rain  comin*  down.'^  It's  a  pity  of  any  poor 
man  hasn't  got  a  home  this  night !" 

He  nodded  assent. 

"Your  da  was  out  many's  a  night  the  like  of 
this   one,  walkin'   the   streets!" 

"Well,  that  was  his  own  doin',  wasn't  it.'^" 

"A^^e,  indeed  it  was,  Jamesey,  but  man3^'s  a 
thing  is  our  own  doin'  that's  bitter  hard  for  all 
that.  He's  a  seen  a  deal  of  trouble  that  man, 
son!" 

"Has  he.?" 

"Aye,  he  has.  I  hope  you'll  never  see  as  much. 
Your  da  was  a  quare  man,  Jamesey.  A  wild,  restless 
spirit  he  had,  an'  was  never  content,  but  must  be 
roamin'  the  world !" 

"His  roamin'  hasn't  done  him  much  good  by  the 
look  of  him!" 

"Xo.  Somethin'  must  'a'  been  the  matter  with 
him.  He  wasn't  always  like  that,  son.  He  was  a 
proud  man,  quick  in  his  temper  an'  strong.  I  never 
seen  him  the  worse  for  liquor  before  this  day,  son, 
an'  I  know  rightly  what's  brought  him  to  it.  He's 
heart-feard,  that's  what  he  is !" 

"What's  he  afeard  of?" 

"Aggie !" 

Jamesey  began  to  laugh  when  he  heard  her  say 
that.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  ludicrous  that  any 
one  should  be  afraid  of  his  sister — a  bit  of  a  girl 
like  that ! 

"Heth,  you  may  laugh,"  said  his  mother,  "an' 
mebbe  it's  laughable  to  think  of,  but  it's  true  for 
all  that.    I  don't  know  what  story  he's  told  her  about 


278  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

himself,  an'  I  don't  much  care,  but  he's  told  her 
somethin',  an'  he's  afeard  of  his  life  of  her  findin' 
out  it's  not  true.  She  never  asks  where  he  was  all 
the  time  he  was  away  from  home  an'  she  never  dreams 
he  run  away  an'  left  me  to  look  after  myself,  an' 
her  just  comin'  on  me!    .    .    ." 

"It  was  a  dirty  act  for  any  man  to  do,  to  go  away 
an'  leave  his  wife,  an'  her  goin'  to  have  a  child, 
.so  it  was !" 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  took  hold  of 
his  and  clasped  it  tightly.  "Aye,  son,  it  was, 
indeed !  But  it  was  done,  an'  there's  an  end  of 
it!" 

He  got  up  and  began  to  pace  backward  and 
forward,  with  his  liands  thrust  deeply  into  his 
pockets. 

"It's  not  the  end  of  it,"  he  said.  "There  has 
to  be  punishment  when  men  misbehave  themselves, 
hasn't  there?" 

She  turned  toward  him,  and  smiled  at  him.  "Sure, 
what's  the  use  of  punishment?  It  doesn't  undo 
anything  that's  done,  an'  it  only  makes  things  bit- 
terer nor  they  were !    .    .    . " 

"Aye,  that's  fine  ould  women's  talk,  that!"  he 
interrupted. 

She  got  up  slowlj'  from  her  chair,  and  gave  a 
little  groan  as  she  did  so.  "Ochone,"  she  said,  "I'm 
gettin'  ould,  surely.  My  bones  is  sluggard!  .  .  . 
Mebbe  it  is,  Jamesey,  mebbe  it  is!  You'd  better 
come  off  to  bed  now,  son,  an'  not  be  missin'  your 
sleep.     Let  me  have  a  look  at  you !" 

She  drew  his  face  down  and  looked  into  his 
eyes. 

"Aye,    you're    gettin'    better    quick,"    she    said. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  279 

"You'll  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two,  an'  back  again 
at  your  work.  I  daresay  j^ou'll  be  glad  to  get  back 
to  the  Island.  Dear-a-dear,  that  wind  an'  rain ! 
Good-night,  son !" 

She  kissed  him,  and  he  went  toward  the  door. 

"Will  I  not  sit  up  with  you  awhile?"  he 
asked,  standing  with  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
door. 

"Och,  no,  son !  I'll  hv  goin'  to  bed  myself  in  a 
wee  minute !" 

He  nodded  liis  head  toward  his  father.  "Will  he 
be   all  right,  do  you  think  ?" 

"I  expect  he  will,"  she  said.  "I'll  put  a  chair 
near  him  before  I  go  up  to  bod  to  keep  hira  from 
coupin'  ofl'  the  sofa.  Don't  stand  about  in  the 
draught,  son,  or  I'll  have  you  sick  again!" 

"Good-night,  ma!" 

"Good-night,   son !" 

He  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  went  upstairs 
to  his  bed.  His  mother  remained  sitting  in  front 
of  the  fire  for  some  time  after  he  left  the  room. 
She  sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  la[),  and  did 
not  move.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  face  of  the 
clock,  but  she  was  not  counting  the  time.  The  fire 
burned  down,  and  the  room  became  cold.  She  got 
up  from  her  chair  and  walked  over  to  the  sofa 
where  her  husband  lay  in  a  thick  sleep.  She  stood 
over  him,  looking  down  on  the  heavy,  coarsened  face. 
He  had  turned  again,  and  was  clutching  one  of  the 
blankets  tightly  in  his  fist. 

"It's  qtiaren  quare,"  she  said,  and  then  she  put 
the  lamp  out,  and  went  upstairs  to  her  bed- 
room. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

In  the  moining  Mrs.  Martin  rose  early  and  went 
downstairs  to  the  parlor  to  waken  her  husband.  He 
looked  about  him  uneasily  until  she  told  him  where 
he  was,  and  then  he  lay  back  again  on  the  sofa  and 
stretched  himself  and  yawned  heavily.  "I'm  terrible 
dry,"  he  complained,  and  then  added  that  his  head 
was  splitting.  She  went  to  the  kitchen  and  brought 
a  glass  of  water  to  him,  and  waited  silently  while 
he  drank  it. 

"I  suppose  you  remember  the  state  you  were  in 
last  night?"  she  said,  as  she  took  tlie  glass  from  him 
and  put  it  aside. 

"Was  I  very  bad?"  he  replied. 

"You  were  that  drunk  you  could  hardly  control 
yourself.  I  don't  know  what  Aggie'll  say  about  it 
when   she  hears !    .    .    . " 

He  sat  up  sharply  on  the  sofa,  and  stared  at  her 
miserably.  "She  never  knew  I  was  comin'  here," 
he  said.  "She'll  be  distracted  mad  at  me  not  comin' 
home !  .  .  . "  He  got  out  of  the  bed,  and  started 
searching  for  his  clothes.  "Where's  my  things?" 
he  demanded.  "I'll  have  to  be  back  quick.  God 
save  us,  she  must  'a'  been  scared  out  of  her  seven 
senses  all  night!" 

"You  needn't  bother  yourself,"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
sent  a  telegram  to  her  last  night  to  tell  her  you 
were  here,  an'  your  clothes  is  in  the  kitchen  dryin' 

280 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  281 

foment  the  range.    Get  back  into  your  bed,  will  you, 
till  I  have  a  talk  with  you !" 

He  got  into  the  bed  again,  and  sat  waiting  for 
her  to  speak, 

"It  wasn't  very  considerate  of  you,"  she  con- 
tinued, "to  leave  a  young  girl  by  herself  all 
night!    .    .    .» 

"Sure,  I  didn't  know  I  was  goin'  to  be  out  all 
night!  I  thought  I'd  be  back  before  late.  That's 
the  truth  I'm  tellin'  you,  as  sure  as  you're  standin' 
there.  I  got  afeard  when  she  read  out  your  let- 
ter sayin'  that  Esther  was  stoppin'  here,  an'  Jame- 
sey  an'  her  goin'  to  take  a  shop  thegether,  an' 
I  thought  mebbe  they'd  be  tellin'  Aggie  everything 
about  .  .  .  well,  you  understand,  don't  you,  the 
feelin'  I  had?  An'  then  I  said  to  Aggie  I  was  in 
great  need  of  a  stretch,  an'  I  was  goin'  for  a  walk, 
an'  she  begun  gaggin'  me,  an'  lettin'  on  she  didn't 
believe  I  was  any  sort  of  a  walker  at  all,  an'  I  said 
I'd  walk  to  Newtownards  an'  back,  an'  she  said  I 
couldn't  do  it.  That  suited  me  gran',  for  I  meant 
to  come  to  Belfast  by  train,  an'  if  I  was  late  gettin' 
home,  she'd  think  I  was  walkin'  the  walk.  I  toul' 
her  I  could  walk  to  Belfast  an'  back  as  easy  as  any- 
thing.   ..." 

"Did  you,  indeed.?" 

"Aye,  I  did,  an'  so  I  could  If  she  dared  me.  I 
walked  bigger  walks  nor  that  many's  a  time  in 
America !" 

"An'  what  made  you  get  drunk.'*" 

"I  didn't  mean  that,  Martha.  I  did  not  in  sang! 
I  come  here  in  the  day  time  when  you  were  out — 
you  can  ask  the  woman  yourself,  if  you  disbelieve 
me — an'  she  toul'  me  you  wouldn't  be  back  til  your 


982  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

tay-time,  an'  she  asked  me  to  come  in  an'  wait  a 
while,  but  I  didn't  want  to  sit  here  that  length, 
partic'lar  as  she  said  Jamesey  would  be  comin' 
back  in  a  wee  while,  so  I  thanked  her  an'  said  I 
would  come  again  in  the  evenin'.  I  went  down  to 
the  quays,  an'  it  started  to  pour,  an*  I  took  shel- 
ter in  a  public-house.  I  was  standin'  there  a  long 
while,  shiverin'  an'  gettin'  coul'  an'  wet,  an'  I  said 
to  myself  a  wee  drop  of  whisky  would  warm  me 
up,  an'  I  went  in  an'  had  one,  an'  the  rain  kep' 
on  comin'  down  in  bucketfuls,  an'  I  had  an- 
other wee  drop,  an'  I  was  angry  about  Esther 
an'  afeard  about  Aggie,  an'  one  thing  an'  another, 
an'  I  don't  hardly  know  what  I  was  doin',  but  I 
mind  rightly  I  was  toul'  to  get  out  of  the  public- 
house  quick  or  the  peelers  'ud  be  after  them  for 
servin'  a  drunk  man,  an'  then  I  don't  mind  how 
I  got  here.  ...  I  mind  lookin'  in  the  windy  there, 
an'  seein'  you  an'  Esther  sittin'  very  comfortable 
to  yourselves  before  the  fire,  an'  me  out  there  in  the 
wvingin'  wet,  an'  I  got  beyond  myself.    ..." 

"Well,  of  course,  James,"  she  said,  "if  you  didn't 
moan  to  get  drunk  that  makes  a  differs,  only 
you  know  I  couldn't  keep  a  drunkard  in  the 
liouse !" 

He  protested  that  he  was  no  drunkard.  "I  never 
put  a  drop  across  my  lips  the  whole  while  I 
was  in  Bally  reagh,  did  I  now.?  Did  I?  I 
wouldn't  let  the  smell  of  it  be  on  me,  an'  Aggie 
about !" 

She  got  up  from  her  seat  as  he  said  this.  "I'll 
go  an'  get  your  clothes,"  she  said,  "an'  you  can 
dress  yourself,  an'  have  your  breakfast.  You'll  have 
to  go  back  to  Ballyreagh  as  quick  as  you  can." 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  283 

"Ah,  sure,  that's  what  I  want  to  do !" 

"But  you  an'  Jamesey  an'  Esther  an'  me'll  have 
to  have  a  serious  conversation  thcffether  before  vou 
go.  We  might  as  well  get  our  minds  clear  as  not, 
an'  we'll  mebbe  not  get  another  chance  like  this !" 

She  brought  liis  clothes  to  him,  and  he  began  to 
dress. 

"What'll  I  tell  Aggie?"  he  said.  "She'll  wonder 
at  me  bein'  here!" 

"Ah,  that's  easy  enough,"  she  replied.  "You  can 
tell  her  you  walked  on  from  Newtownards  to  Belfast 
just  to  show  her  what  you  could  do,  an'  you  got 
drenched  through,  an'  tliought  3'ou  might  as  well 
come  on  here  an'  see  Jamesey,  an'  I  made  you  stop 
the  night  for  fear  you'd  get  your  death  of  coul'. 
I  daresay  you've  toul'  her  many's  a  thing,  an'  it'll 
not  hurt  you  to  tell  her  another !" 

"It's  as  you  please !"  he  said. 

"I've  sent  word  to  Esther,"  she  said,  "to  come 
down  here  as  soon  as  she's  had  her  breakfast,  an' 
then  we  can  all  talk  a  while !  Will  you  come  in  the 
kitchen  as  soon  as  you've  tidied  yourself.  You  can 
wash  yourself  upstairs  in  the  bathroom.  It's  up 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs !" 

She  left  him  and  went  to  Jamesey's  room.  He 
was  still  asleep,  and  so  she  left  him,  and  returned 
to  the  kitchen.  "He'll  be  all  the  better  of  a  long 
sleep,"  she  said  to  herself,  "an'  mebbe  it'll  be  as  well 
for  me  to  talk  to  him  myself!" 

They  had  breakfast  together,  and  then  they 
w.aited  in  the  parlor  for  Esther,  who  came  to  them 
soon  after  they  had  risen  from  their  meal.  They 
saw  her  as  she  passed  the  parlor-window,  and 
Martha  went  to  open  the  door  for  her.     James  heard 


28i  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

them  greeting  each  other,  and  then  Esther,  followed 
by  Martha,  entered  the  room.  She  tried  to  look 
unconcerned  when  she  saw  James  sitting  at  the  fire, 
but  when  she  attempted  to  say  "That's  a  fine 
mornin',  the  day!"  her  tongue  seemed  to  get  entan- 
gled in  her  mouth,  and  her  words  w^ere  wrecked 
against  her  teeth. 

"Sit  down,  Esther!"  Martha  said  gently,  putting 
a  chair  for  her  at  a  distance  from  that  on  which 
James  was  sitting. 

The  comfortable,  easy  air  which  had  pervaded  the 
room  the  previous  evening  was  gone.  Mrs.  Luke 
had  tidied  the  place,  and  the  table  now  had  its 
stiff,  cold  look  of  disuse.  A  pink  epergne  stood 
on  a  family  Bible  in  the  center  of  the  table,  and 
books  and  Bibles  and  hymnals  and  albums  of  pho- 
tographs and  a  portfolio  of  views  of  the  Isle  of 
Man  were  set  at  regular  intervals  round  the  edge 
of  the  table.  The  bedclothes  had  been  removed 
from  the  sofa  over  the  head  of  which  was  thrown 
a  colored  woollen  antimacassar.  Esther  noticed 
these  details  as  her  eye  went  round  the  room  in 
any  direction  but  that  in  which  James  was  to  be 
seen. 

"Here,"  she  heard  Martha  saying,  "put  your  feet 
on  that  boss !" 

She  felt  the  carpet-covered  footstool  under  her 
feet,  and  as  she  moved  it  so  that  it  should  be  more 
comfortably  placed  for  her,  she  said  to  Martha,  "Is 
Jamesey  all  right,  this  mornin'?" 

"He's  still  in  his  bed,"  Martha  replied.  "I  didn't 
wake  him.  Now,  the  two  of  you,"  she  added  sharply, 
"quit  your  sulkin'  an'  pretendin'  you  don't  see  one 
another !" 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  ^85 

James  stirred  uneasily,  and  then  began  to  light 
his  pipe  again  although  it  had  not  gone  out,  and 
Esther,  when  she  saw  that  he  was  as  uncomfortable 
as  she  was,  felt  some  courage  coming  into  her  heart. 

"Yes,  Martha !"  she  said  quietly. 

"There's  no  good  of  our  goin'  on  this  way,"  Mrs. 
Martin  said.  "We'll  mebbe  live  a  long  while  yet, 
an'  I  for  one  am  not  goin'  through  the  world  tryin' 
to  remember  which  of  you  is  fell  out  an'  which  of 
you  is  not.  Here  we  are,  the  three  of  us,  knowin' 
all  there  is  to  know,  an'  we  have  two  childer  to 
be  thinkin'  about,  a  young  lad  an'  a  young  girl, 
an'  we'd  do  well  to  be  keepin'  them  in  our  mind, 
an'  not  to  be  runnin'  about  thinkin'  of  ourselves 
all  the  while!" 

Esther  nodded  her  head.  "Sure,  Martha,"  she 
said,  "I'd  do  anything  for  Jamesey!    ..." 

"What  did  you  go  an'  tell  him  about  you  an'  me 
for.'*"  James  demanded,  taking  his  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth  and  glaring  at  her. 

Mrs.  Martin  moved  his  hand  so  that  his  pipe  was 
restored  to  his  mouth.  "Smoke  ^our  pipe,  man!" 
she  said,  "an'  don't  ask  no  questions  that  can't  be 
answered !" 

"The  pair  of  you,"  she  went  on,  "have  a  deal 
to  be  keepin'  to  yourselves,  an'  I  daresay  you  don't 
want  any  of  it  spread  about,  but  by  the  way  you're 
goin  on  you'd  think  you  were  anxious  to  let  every 
one  hear  about  it.  You  both  did  me  harm.  .  .  . 
I  never  said  much  to  you,  James,  about  it,  but  I 
tiiought  all  the  more.  Still,  there's  no  good  rakin' 
all  that  up  now.  The  smell'll  go  out  of  a  rotten 
thing  if  you  leave  it  alone,  but  if  you  start  pulHn' 
it  about  an'  exposin'  it  to  the  air,  it'll  only  stink  all 


286  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

the  more.  Yous  is  busy  haulin'  up  jour  ould  nasti- 
ness,  an'  tellin  every  one  to  have  a  look  at  it !  .    .    . " 

"I'm  sure  that's  not  what  I  want  to  do,  Martha," 
Esther  interrupted. 

"It's  racbbe  not  what  you  want  to  do.  ...  I 
don't  suppose  it  is  .  .  .  but  it's  what  you  arc  doin' 
all  the  same.  Makin'  muck,  that's  all.  Now,  I 
want  to  talk  to  the  pair  of  yous !  James  here  is 
dotin'  about  Aggie,  an'  you,  Esther,  are  dotin'  about 
Jamesey.  Aggie  doesn't  know  nothin'  about  the 
past,  an'  Jamesey  does.  Now,  why  don't  you  try 
.ui'  live  amicably,  the  two  of  yous.  You  need  never 
see  one  another  no  more  nor  you  can  help,  but 
when  you  do  see  each  other,  sure  you  can  be  civil 
about  it!"  She  turned  to  her  husband.  "Esther 
here  is  goin'  to  start  a  shop  in  Belfast  ...  it 
was  it  we  were  lookin'  at  yesterday,  an'  Jamesey'll 
live  with  her  if  I  can  persuade  him.  You'll  stop 
down  in  Ballyreagh  where  Aggie  is.  What  more  do 
you  want.'* 

"But  supposin'  Jamesey  tells  Aggie.?  .  .  ." 
James  began. 

"Well,  then,  we'll  have  to  try  an'  make  Jamesey 
promise  not  to  tell  her,"  Mrs.  Martin  interrupted. 
"But  how  are  we  goin'  to  do  it  with  you  goin'  about 
gettin'  drunk.?    ..." 

"Sure,  didn't  I  tell  you  I  didn't  mean  to  get 
drunk !" 

"There's  many  a  person  doesn't  mean  to  do  a 
thing,  but  they  do  it  all  the  same.  You'll  have 
to  redd  your  mind  of  ill-will  against  Esther,  that's 
what  you'll  have  to  do,  an'  she'll  have  to  redd  her 
mind  of  ill-will  against  you.  I'll  take  Jamesey  for 
a  wee  walk   when   he  gets  up,  an'  niebbe  I'll  be  able 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  287 

to  make  him  promise  never  to  say  a  word  to  Aggie, 
but  there'll  have  to  be  promises  on  both  sides.  You'll 
have  to  promise,  James,  not  to  interfere  with  Esther. 
There's  no  more  nor  that  needed.  Esther  doesn't 
want  to  interfere  with  you !" 

"I  only  want  her  to  keep  away  from  m}'  childer!" 
he  replied  sullenly. 

'*Well,  that's  a  want  you'll  not  get  supplied, 
my  man !  I  like  your  cheek  in  talkin'  about  your 
childer!  They're  not  yours — you  done  nothin'  for 
them,  but  get  them — they're  my  childer,  an'  if  you're 
fond  of  Aggie,  you'll  only  be  let  near  her  if  you 
do  as  you're  toul' !"  She  bent  closer  to  him. 
"Listen  here,  James,  I  was  near  in  mind  to  do  what 
Jamesey  wanted  me  to  do,  pack  you  back  to 
America  quick,  for  you  looked  as  if  you  weren't 
goin'  to  be  much  good  to  me.  I  don't  know  that 
you  are  much  good  as  It  is.  You  do  a  few  odd 
jobs  about  the  shop,  but  Johnnie-look-up-at-the- 
moon  used  to  do  as  much  for  far  less  trouble  an' 
expense,  an'  it  was  a  charity  to  let  him  do  it,  too, 
but  it's  no  charity  to  let  you  do  it  !'*  He  made  a 
motion  as  if  he  would  say  something,  but  she  would 
not  let  him  speak.  "No,"  she  said,  "you  can  just 
houl'  your  tongue  for  a  change,  an'  listen  to  what 
I  have  to  say.  T  want  you  to  understand  clearly 
what  your  value  is  to  me  an'  all  you  belong  to.  It's 
just  nothin',  James!  That's  what  it  is!  Just 
nothin'!  If  you  were  a  man  lookin'  for  a  job,  I 
wouldn't  give  you  nine  pence  a  week.  Don't  never 
get  no  ideas  in  your  head  that  you're  any  use  to 
me,  for  you're  not,  an'  if  ever  you  should  think  of 
runnin'  away  again  an'  leavin'  me  to  look  after  my- 
self, don't  be  upset  tin'  yourself  about  it,  an'  won- 


288  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

derin'  will  I  cry  my  eyes  out  for  your  loss  or  have  to 
go  into  the  poorhouse  or  anything.  Just  go,  James, 
if  you  want  to,  an'  for  dear  sake  don't  hurry  back!" 

She  turned  away  from  him  and  leaned  back  in 
her  chair.  She  did  not  speak  for  a  second  or  two, 
but  sat  contemplating  the  fire  as  if  she  were  think- 
ing of  what  she  should  say  next.  Several  times 
while  she  was  speaking,  he  had  made  an  angry 
movement,  but  the  rush  of  her  speech  kept  him  still 
in  his  chair. 

"Now,"  she  resumed,  "I  think  you  understand 
what  I  think  of  you.  Your  goin'  away  wasn't  such 
a  loss  as  I  thought  at  the  time,  an'  your  comin' 
back's  no  gain.  If  you  stop  with  me  you  stop  on 
my  terms,  an'  not  on  your  own,  an'  my  terms  are 
that  you  behave  yourself  about  Esther.  If  you 
don't  like  them,  you  can  walk  out  of  the  house  this 
minute  an'  never  put  your  nose  anear  my  door 
again.   If  3'ou  do,  I'll  have  you  lifted  by  the  peelers  !" 

"That's  no  way  to  be  talkin'  to  your  man,"  he 
exclaimed,  stung  at  last  to  outcry. 

"Well,  it's  the  way  I'm  goin'  to  talk  to  him.  An' 
don't  be  shoutin'  at  the  top  of  your  voice  or  you'll 
wake  Jamesey !"  she  retorted. 

"Jamesey !"  he  sneered.  "It's  all  Jamesey  with 
you !" 

"Aye,  James,  it  is.  You  may  make  up  your  mind 
about  that.  I  don't  want  to  make  things  hard  for 
you.  .  .  .  I'm  not  that  kind  .  .  .  an'  if  you 
want  to  stay  in  my  house,  you  can  easily  do  it. 
Esther  here'll  never  say  a  word  to  Aggie  about 
anything  that's  happened  in  the  past,  an'  I'll  not 
say  a  word  to  her  an'  I'll  make  Jamesey  promise 
he'll  not.      It'U  mebbe  happen  one  day  that  she'll 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  ^89 

hear  about  it,  for  there's  pleutj  knows,  but  you'll 
have  to  be  prepared  for  that.  All  I  want  you  to 
do  now  is  to  promise  you'll  not  interfere  in  any  way 
with  Esther.  If  Aggie  ever  asks  to  come  up  to 
Belfast  to  see  her  or  stop  with  her,  you'll  not  inter- 
fere in  any  way.  I  daresay  the  girl'll  want  to  come 
up  many's  a  time.  She  doesn't  get  much  pleasure 
down  in  Ballyreagh,  an'  it'll  be  natural  for  her  to 
expect  to  come  an'  stay  with  her  aunt  in  Belfast 
where  she  can  go  an  odd  time  to  the  theater  or  the 
like  of  that.  That's  all  you've  got  to  do,  James. 
You've  got  to  behave  to  Esther  as  if  there  never 
was  nothin'  in  your  lives.  Of  course,  there's  to  be 
no  more  drinkin'.  I'm  not  goin*  to  give  you  money 
to  spend  on  soakin'  yourself.  I'll  not  ask  you  to 
sign  the  pledge  for  I  don't  think  that  'ud  stop  you 
from  it,  if  your  mind  wasn't  set  on  it,  but  you've 
got  to  stop  it,  or  out  you  go !" 

"You  forget,"  he  said,  "it  was  me  give  you  the 
money  to  start  the  shop.    ..." 

"Och,  away  an'  divert  yourself!"  she  replied.  She 
turned  to  Esther.  "An'  3'ou,  Esther,  all  I  want 
you  to  do  is  not  to  go  about  the  world  with  a  face 
as  long  as  the  day  an'  the  morrow.  You'll  have 
plenty  to  occupy  your  mind  when  you  get  the  shop. 
.  .  .  I've  been  thinkin'  about  it  in  the  night,  an' 
I'm  sure  you  ought  to  take  it,  so  you'd  better  go 
an'  see  the  man  in  a  day  or  two  an'  settle  up  with 
him  .  .  .  an'  you're  to  try  an'  make  Jamcsey  for- 
get about  what  you  toul'  him.  You'll  only  do 
that  by  forgettin'  about  it  yourself.  I  may  as 
well  tell  you,  James,  that  Esther  never  knew  you 
run  away  from  me  until  you  come  back,  an'  she 
had   it   in    her   mind    that   you   might    be    the   same 


290  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

when  you  come  home  as  you  were  afore  you 
went  away !    .    .     . " 

"She  made  the  quare  mistake!"  he  said  laugh- 
ing bitterl3^ 

"Aye,  she  did,  James,  for  when  she  saw  you  the 
night  you  come  in,  she  saw  you  weren't  worth  the 
trouble  of  rememberin'    ..." 

"Are  you  goin'  on  like  that  all  the  time?"  he 
snapped  at  her. 

"No,  not  all  the  time,  only  this  mornin'.  What- 
ever she  had  in  her  mind  about  you  before  you 
come  back,  went  clean  out  of  it  the  minute  she  saw 
you,  an'  no  Avonder,  for  you  looked  the  despair  of 
the  world.  You're  both  disappointments,  the  pair 
of  you,  an'  you'd  better  clean  up  your  minds,  an' 
start  as  if  you  never  had  a  hope  between  you.  Are 
you  goin'  to  do  as  I  ask.^"' 

"An'  what  about  her.'"'  he  said,  pointing  at 
Esther. 

"I'll  do  whatever  Martha  bids  me,"  Esther  replied. 

"There,  you  hear  that,  James.'"'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Martin. 

He  sat  with  his  head  bent  forward  and  tapped 
his  pipe  on  the  fender.  They  waited  for  him  to 
speak,  and  watched  him  as  they  waited. 

"Well.?"  said  Mrs.  Martin. 

"All  right!"  he  said,  "I'll  promise  not  to  inter- 
fere with  her  if  you'll  make  Jamesey  promise  not  to 
tell  Aggie !" 

"Very  well,  then,"  Mrs.  Martin  i-eplied.  "An'  now 
you  can  just  go  down  to  the  station  an'  get  the  first 
train  back  to  Ballyreagh." 

He  looked  doubtfully  at  her  for  a  few  moments, 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  291 

and  then  he  did  as  she  told  him.  He  put  on  his  cap, 
and  prepared  to  leave  the  house. 

"Have  you  any  money.?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  my  return  ticket,"  he  answered. 

"Have  you  no  money  as  well.''" 

"I  have  a  few  co])pers !" 

"I  don't  suppose  you'll  need  anything  til  you  get 
home,  but  I  don't  like  to  think  of  a  man  goin'  about 
without  some  silver  in  his  pocket.    Here  you  are !" 

She  handed  some  money  to  him. 

"I  don't  need  it,"  he  said. 

"Never  mind,"  she  replied,  "It'll  please  you  to 
know  you  have  it." 

He  went  out  of  the  room  without  speaking  to 
Esther,  and  Mrs.  Martin  did  not  call  him  back  to 
say  "Good-by"  to  her.  She  thought  that  such 
greetings  and  farewells  should  come  from  him  with- 
out suggestion. 

"I'm  away  now,"  he  said,  opening  the  door  and 
stepping  into  the  street. 

"All  riglit,  James,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered,  hold- 
ing the  door.  "Tell  Aggie  we're  all  well,  an'  you'd 
better  tell  her  her  Aunt  Esther  was  askin'  after  her, 
an'  say  I'll  be  home  on  Saturday  anyway,  an'  mebbe 
before!" 

He  nodded  his  head  and  went  off.  She  shut  the 
door  quickly,  and  when  he  looked  round,  no  one  was 
gazing  after  him,  waving  farewells.  He  hurried 
down  the  road,  and  when  he  saw  a  tram  passing 
the  end  of  it,  he  ran  to  catch  it,  shouting  to  the 
conductor  as  he  ran.  He  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
car>  and  sat  down. 

"It's  the  quare  take-down,"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
the  car  carried  him  into  the  city. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

Esther  had  left  the  house  when  Jamesey  came  down, 
and  Mrs.  Martin  did  not  speak  to  him  of  his  father 
or  of  his  aunt.  She  said  only  that  liis  father  had 
returned  to  Ballyreagh  and  that  he  was  sorry  for 
the  trouble  he  had  made.  In  the  afternoon,  she 
called  at  Esther's  lodgings,  and  they  both  went 
over  to  Ball3'macarrett  to  spy  on  the  shop.  They 
watched  outside  for  a  while,  noting  the  number  of 
customers  who  entered  it  at  what  they  judged  to  be 
a  slack  hour,  and  then  Martha  took  Esther  a  little 
way  up  the  Albert  Bridge  Road  to  where  there  was  a 
confectioner's  shop. 

"We'll  go  in  here,"  she  said,  "an'  have  our  tay, 
an'  while  we're  havin'  it,  we'll  ask  the  woman  what 
kind  of  a  trade  Ferguson  does.  It  looks  all  right 
to  me,  but  there's  no  harm  in  makin'  as  sure  as 
you  can!" 

"She'll  mebbe  not  tell  us  nothin' !"  Esther  replied. 
"I  wouldn't  like  myself  to  be  asked  questions  about 
other  people's  business  by  strangers !" 

"Now,  wheesht!"  Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed,  "an' 
watch  the  way  I  ask  her.  It'll  learn  you  how  to  do 
it  for  yourself  when  you  need  it  another  time !" 

She  entered  the  shop,  and  rapped  on  the  counter. 

"Can   we   have    our   tea    here?"    she   said    to    the 

292 


MRS.  MAli'l  IX'S  MAX  293 

woman  who  answered.  She  did  not  say  "tay"  be- 
cause she  was  out,  and  one  docs  not  say  "tay" 
except  when  one  is  at  home  or  with  friends.  In 
the  presence  of  strangers  or  superior  company,  one 
says  "tea." 

"You  can  just!"  the  woman  answered.  "What'll 
I  serve  you  with.''  There's  ninepenny  teas  an'  six- 
penny, or  would  you  just  rather  have  a  pot  of  tea 
an'  some  cookies.'"' 

Mrs.  Martin  consulted  with  Esther,  and  then  she 
asked  what  was  given  for  ninepence. 

"It's  an  ordinary  tea  with  soda  bread  and 
oatmeal  cakes  an'  loaf  bread,  if  you  want  it,  an' 
crumpets  an'  butter  an'  jam  an'  whatever  you 
fancy  in  the  way  of  pastry !"  was  the  reply  she 
received. 

"Och,  well,  I  think  we'll  have  the  ninepenny 
tea,  then.  I  feel  in  need  of  my  tea,  an'  I  daresay 
you  do  too,  Esther!"  She  turned  to  the  woman 
and  added,  "I  suppose  you  haven't  any  potato 
farls?" 

"Och,  I  have  not,"  she  replied.  "I'm  quaren  sorry. 
We  didn't  make  an}'  the  day — there's  only  the  soda 
bread.    There's  bap,  if  you  like  it!" 

"Bap's  not  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Martin.  "I  will  have 
some.  It's  a  pity  you  haven't  any  potato  farls, 
though !" 

"I'm  right  an'  sorry  about  it,"  said  the  woman. 
"I  could  get  you  some  from  the  baker's,  if  you  were 
partic'lar  wantin'  them !" 

Mrs.  Martin  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said, 
"don't  bother  yourself.  I  don't  like  potato  bread 
from  baker's  shop  somehow.  It's  never  the  same 
as  the  homemade  kind!" 


294  MRS.  JNIARTIN'S  MAN 

"Indeed  an'  you're  right,"  the  woman  replied. 
"They  don't  get  the  quality  in  it  the  same  way, 
an'  of  course  it's  not  to  be  expected  the  way  they 
make  it.     I'll  not  be  a  minute  bringin'  in  the  tea!" 

The  woman  w-ent  out  of  the  shop  to  her  kitchen, 
but  almost  immediately  returned. 

"Mebbe  you'd  like  to  come  an'  have  it  in  the 
warm,"  she  said,  "instead  of  there  in  the  shop. 
Some  people  doesn't  like  takin'  their  food  where 
people  can  see  them !" 

"It's  quaren  kind  of  you,"  Mrs.  Martin  replied, 
and  she  and  Esther  followed  her  into  the  kitchen. 

In  a  little  while,  they  were  eating  the  food  that 
was  given  to  them — the  lightest  of  soda  bread  and 
H  pleasant  bap,  which  is  a  small  light  loaf  of  the 
shape  of  a  diamond,  and  soft,  yielding  crumpets 
and  little  buttered  cookies;  and  while  they  ate  it, 
they  talked  to  the  woman  of  the  house. 

"That's  the  nicest  soda  cake  I've  tasted  this  long 
while,"  Mrs.  Martin  said. 

"It  is  nice,"  Esther  added. 

"I'm  quaren  glad  you  like  it.  Will  you  have  a 
bit  more  if  I  fetch  it  out  of  the  pan  for  you.'*" 

"Thank  you,  I  would  like  some  more.  .  .  . 
Could  you  tell  me  is  there  a  hardware  shop  near 
by?"  she  added  when  the  woman  returned  to  the 
kitchen  from  the  scullery. 

"There's  one  down  the  road,  the  name  of  Fer- 
guson." 

"Is  it  a  good  shop.''" 

"Aye,  it  is.  It's  the  best  shop  on  the  road  as 
far  as  I  know.     It's  the  only  place  I  deal  myself !" 

Mrs.  Martin  held  out  her  hand  for  Esther's  cup. 
"You'll  have  a  w^eo  drop  more  tea,  Esther?" 


.AIRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  ^95 

"Thank  you,  Martha,  I  will!"  Esther  answered, 
passing  her  cup  to  her  sister. 

"I  daresay  he  does  a  good  trade,  Mr.  Whatj'ou- 
maycallhim — Ferguson?"  Mrs.  Martin  said  as  she 
filled  Esther's  cup  and  returned  it  to  her. 

"Indeed,  he  does.  He  has  the  best  trade  of  any- 
one here  in  the  hardware  line,  anyway.  I  wouldn't 
wonder  but  he'd  be  right  an'  well  off.  His  wife  and 
him  have  no  children — they're  Scotch  or  something 
— an'  they  just  do  rightly!" 

"Ah,  well,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  "it's  well  to  be  them 
that  has  it !" 

"You're  right,"  the  woman  answered,  and  then 
they  spoke  of  other  things,  and  later  Martha  and 
Esther  left  the  shop  and  walked  down  the  Albert 
Bridge  Road,  toward  the  Lagan. 

"Do  you  know,  Esther,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  as 
they  approached  the  shop,  "I  think  if  I  was  you 
I'd  go  in  now  an'  bargain  with  him!" 

"Would  you,  Martha.?" 

"Aye,  I  would,  indeed.  Offer  him  fifty  pounds 
less  nor  he  wants,  and  then  split  the  differs  with 
him,  but  don't  budge  a  penny  more  unless  I  give 
a  cough,  an'  then  you  can  give  him  what  he  asks. 
Come  on  in !" 

They  entered  the  shop,  and  waited  until  Mr. 
Ferguson  had  served  two  customers,  and  then  they 
began  to  bargain  with  him.  .  .  .  She  did  not  cough. 
P^sther  bought  the  business  by  splitting  "the  differs." 

"Do  you  feel  proud  of  yourself.'"'  Mrs.  Martin 
said,  as  they  walked  home,  "to  be  ownin'  a  shop 
that's  far  liigger  nor  ever  I  owned.''" 

"I  would  feel  proud  of  myself."  Esther  replied, 
"if  I  liad  Jamesey  sioyjpin'  witli  me!" 


296  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Well,  you'll  mebbe  have  more  nor  that  one  day. 
Hei-e's  a  tram  comin' !  Hurry  up  or  we'll  not  catch 
it.     Hi,  mister!    ..." 

Esther  did  not  go  into  the  house  with  her 
sister. 

"You'd  better  go  on  up  home,  Esther,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin said.  "Jamesey's  quare-tempered,  an'  it  doesn't 
do  to  be  puttin'  yourself  too  much  in  his  way. 
I  haven't  said  anything  to  him  yet,  an'  I'm  not 
goin'  to  say  anything  for  a  wee  while  because  it's 
better  to  let  him  turn  things  over  in  his  mind, 
an'  not  have  them  turned  over  for  him.  I'll  just 
tell  him  you've  bought  the  shop.  That'll  be 
enough  for  him  to  sleep  on.  I'll  come  with  you  the 
morrow  to  make  arrangements  about  takin'  it  over. 
I'd  get  into  it  as  quick  as  you  can,  if  I  was  you. 
You'll  not  be  lonesome,  will  you,  the  night,  not  liavin* 
no  one  to  talk  til.'"' 

"Och,  no,  Martha,  not  very.    ..." 

"Well,  go  to  bed  early  then,  for  you've  had  a 
long  day,  an'  a  tirin'  one,  an'  in  the  mornin'  you'll 
be  nice  an'  fresh.  We'll  go  down  to  the  Junction 
thegether,  an'  buy  thon  cape  an'  bonnet  we  saw  in 
the  Bank  window.  I've  just  set  my  heart  on  them 
both,  an'  I  might  as  well  buy  somethin'  tasty  now 
I'm  up  here,  for  dear  only  knows  when  I'll  be  back 
again !" 

"Have  you  settled  when  you're  goin'  to  Bally- 
reagh,  Martha?"  Esther  asked. 

"I'll  go  on  Saturday  if  God  spares  me.  Good- 
night to  you,  Esther,  an'  don't  go  an'  bother  your 
head  about  anything!    ..." 

When  Saturday  morning  came,  she  called  to 
Jamesey,  who  was  upstairs  in  his  bedroom. 


MRS.  ^lARTIN'S  MAN  297 

"Come  down  a  minute,"  she  said,  "I  want  you!" 

He  came  as  she  bade  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the 
parlor. 

"I  want  you  to  take  me  a  walk,"  she  replied.  "I'm 
goin'  home  the  day    ..." 

"Och,  can't  you  stop  a  while  longer?"  he  said 
reproachfully. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "I've  been  hero  long  enough. 
Dear  knows  what's  happened  to  the  shop  since  I've 
been  away.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  it's  all  away 
to  wreck  an'  ruin !" 

"Where'll  I  take  you?"  he  said  going  into  the 
hall  to  get  his  cap. 

"Wherever  you  like,  son,  only  not  in  the  town. 
Some  quiet  place  where  I  can  sit  down  beside 
you !" 

She  had  bouglit  the  bonnet  and  cape  on  which 
she  had  set  her  heart,  and  while  he  was  in  the  hall 
she  put  them  on.  When  he  came  back  to  the  par- 
lor, she  was  standing  before  the  overmantel,  tying 
the  ribbons  of  the  bonnet  beneath  her  chin. 

"For  dear  sake,  ma !"  he  exclaimed,  "what  are 
you  puttin'  on  you?" 

"It's  a  bonnet,  son  !" 

"Ah,  but,  ma!    ..." 

"Isn't  it  time  I  started  wearin'  them,  an'  me 
gettin'  ould  !" 

"Sure,  you're  not  that  ould!"  he  remonstrated 
with  her. 

"I'm  ould  enough  to  be  your  ma,  anyway,"  she 
replied,  "an'  you're  a  big  lump  of  a  lad  now.  You're 
near  a  man  .  .  .  mebbe  you  think  you  are  a 
man !" 


298  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"Ah,  don't  be  coddin'  me,  ma !" 

She  had  tied  the  ribbons  neatly  in  a  bow,  and  she 
came  to  him  and  shook  his  arm. 

"I'm  not  coddin'  you,  son,"  she  said,  smiling  at 
him.  "You  are  a  man,  an'  it's  only  right  I  should 
show  I'm  an  ould  woman!" 

"I  don't  like  you  in  a  bonnet,"  he  replied. 
"Where's  the  hat  you  had  on  you  yesterday.'"' 

"Hats  is  for  j^oung  women,  son,  an'  not  for  women 
of  my  age.  I  bought  the  cape  an'  the  bonnet  a 
day  or  two  ago  an'  I  kept  them  to  wear  the  day. 
They'll  think  my  fortune's  made  when  I  get  intil 
Ballyreagh.    ..." 

But  Jamesey  sulked  and  would  not  be  content 
until  she  had  taken  the  sign  of  age  from  her  head 
and  put  on  her  hat  with  the  ribbons  and  the  bobbing 
feather. 

"Were  you  ever  up  the  Cave  Hill?"  he  asked  her, 
as  they  walked  down  the  tiled  path  leading  from 
the  door  to  the  pavement. 

"I  never  was  up  it  in  my  life,"  she  replied. 

"Will  I  take  you  up  it.'"'  he  said. 

"I'm  not  much  of  a  chmber,"  she  answered. 

"I'll  take  you  up  a  way  that's  not  hard.  There's 
a  grand  view  from  it.  You  would  think  you  could 
see  the  whole  world  in  front  of  you.  An'  it's  a  fine 
day,  too.    Look  at  the  day,  ma !" 

There  was  a  great  stretch  of  blue  sky  overhead, 
lightened  here  and  there  by  little  fleecy  clouds.  The 
sun  was  shining  strongly,  but  a  soft  cool  wind  tem- 
pered his  heat. 

"Aye,  the  day's  fine  enough,"  Mrs.  Martin  said. 
"We'll  go  up  the  hill,  son !" 

He  led  her  down  the  road  to  the  Antrim  Road, 


MRS.  MARTINIS  MAN  299 

and  then  they  took  a  tram.  When  they  descended 
from  it,  they  walked  a  short  way  until  they  came 
to  a  gap  through  which  they  passed,  and  then  they 
began  the  ascent  of  the  hill. 

"'There  was  a  girl  an'  a  fellow  killed  themselves 
here  one  time,"  Jamesey  said.  "Thcj-  were  in  love 
with  one  another,  an'  they  jumped  down  an'  were 
mangled !    .    .    . " 

"Ochone,  son!" 

"Aye,  it  was  a  quare  pity  of  them!" 

She  paused  to  get  her  breath,  and  he  made  her 
sit  down  for  a  while. 

"You  see,  son,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him,  "it's  time 
I  begun  wearin'  a  bonnet.  I  mind  the  time  I  could 
'a'  run  up  this  hill.    ..." 

"Ah,  now,  ma,  don't  be  Icttin'  on  you  were  that 
smart  on  your  feet !" 

She  pretended  to  be  angry  with  him.  "Are 
you  tellin'  your  ould  mother  she's  a  liar?"  she 
said. 

"Ah,  quit !"  he  replied,  and  then  he  hugged  her. 

"That's  no  way  to  be  goin'  on  with  every  one 
lookin'  at  you,  Jamesey !"  she  said  in  expos- 
tulation. 

"Sure,  no   one'U  see  us,  an'  if  they  do,   I   don't 


care !" 


She  got  up  from  the  grassy  bank,  and  began  to 
climb  again. 

"Come  on,"  she  urged,  "or  we'll  never  get  near 
the  top!" 

He  pointed  to  a  steep  place  on  the  side  of  the 
Hill,  and  said.  "That's  where  they  leaped,  them 
two  I  was  tellin'  you  about!" 

"Ah,  God  spare  them,"  she  said  in  pity.     "Dear 


300  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

knows  what  they  had  on  their  minds.  It's  a  pity 
of  anyone  that's  in  the  bother  they  must  'a'  been 
in.  They  must  'a'  been  demented  surel}'.  To  be 
standin'  there  with  all  the  loveliness  of  God  in  their 
eyes,  an'  them  resolvin'  to  kill  themselves.  Ah,  it's 
fearful,  son,  it's  fearful!  ^lind  your  step  now  .  .  . 
there's  a  hole  in  the  ground  here !" 

He  held  her  hand  to  keep  her  from  going  on. 
"Wait  til  I  get  in  front  of  you,"  he  said,  "an' 
then  I'll  help  you  up.  It'll  mebbe  be  easier  that 
way !" 

They  climbed  up  the  hill  in  that  fashion,  Jamesey 
holding  her  hand  and  hauling  her  over  the  stiff 
places,  until  they  reached  the  top,  and  then  they 
sat  down  exhausted  on  the  grass  to  rest  a  while. 

"You  wouldn't  find  a  nicer  place  nor  this  any- 
where, would  you,  ma.'"'  Jamesey  said  at  last,  look- 
ing round  him  as  he  spoke. 

"You  would  not,  son !"  she  replied. 

He  stood  up,  and  offered  his  hand  to  her. 

"Come  over  here,"  he  said,  "til  I  show  you  McArt's 
Fort!" 

They  stumbled  througli  the  bracken  and  heather 
until  they  came  to  the  fort  with  earthen  walls  where 
McArt  had  fought.  They  could  see  the  city  lying 
below  hidden  by  a  curtain  of  smoke.  The  chimney 
shafts  shot  up  into  the  sky,  sending  out  black  roll- 
ing clouds,  and  across  the  river  they  could  see  the 
gantries  and  stocks  and  cranes  and  hulks  of  ships 
at  the  Island. 

"That's  the  Town  Hall !"  said  Jamesey,  pointing 
to  the  dome  of  the  new  building  in  the  central  square 
of  the  city.  "You  ought  to  go  in  that  place  one 
time,"  he  added.     "There's  marble  all  over  it,  an' 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  301 

picters    of  the  Lord   Mayors   since  ever  there  was 


one!" 


She  did  not  answer.  She  looked  gravely  on  the 
sights  spread  out  before  her  eyes.  Here,  close  under 
the  hill,  was  Belfast  Castle.  There  was  the  Lough 
reaching  up  to  the  roaming  river  and  out  to  the 
Irish  Sea.    .    .    . 

"Them's  the  Twin  Islands,  ma!"  Jamesey  said  to 
her,  eager  to  inform  her  of  all  the  sights. 

"Aye,  son!"  she  said  indifferently. 

And  there  was  the  low-lying  shore  of  Down  where 
her  life  had  been  spent.  That  place  over  there 
was  Hollywood.  People  used  to  make  jokes  about 
the  foreshore.  .  .  .  And  there  was  Helen's  Bay, 
and  beyond  that  was  Bangor,  and  then  round  the 
point,  past  the  Copeland  Islands  was  Ballyreagh. 
The  sea  would  be  tumbling  over  the  rocks  there, 
and  the  yellow  seaweed  would  lift  and  fall  with  a 
loud  swish-swish.  .  .  .  Aggie  and  James  were  there 
this  minute.    .    .    . 

"It's  a  gran'  view,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Aye,  ma,  it  is !"  Jamesey  asserted. 

He  took  hold  of  her  hand  again,  and  bade  her 
come  with  him  a  little  way.  They  left  the  fort, 
and  walked  across  a  field,  and  then  he  stood 
shading  his  eyes,  and  asked  her  what  she  could 
see. 

"Is  it  water.'"'  she  asked. 

"Aye.  Do  you  not  see  it  plain?  It's  Lough 
Neagh,  that!     You  can  see  it  from  here!" 

She  held  her  hand  over  her  eyebrows,  and  looked 
toward  the  sheet  of  shining  water  lying  in  a  heat 
haze  far  off. 

"Many's  a  time  I've  read  about  that,"  she  said, 


302  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

"an'  never  seen  it.     An'  them's  the  hills  of  Antrim, 
I  suppose?" 

She  indicated  the  long,  dark  heap  of  hills  that 
stretched  away  beyond  the  range  of  the  eye. 

"Aye,  that's  them  right  enough!  Are  you  not 
glad  I   brought   you   here?" 

"Aye,  son,  I  am!" 

"I'll  take  you  one  time  to  see  Lough  Neagh,  if 
you  want  to  go.  I  daresay  you'll  be  able  to  go 
wee  trips  now  more  nor  you  used  to  .  .  .  now 
Aggie  can  look  after  the  shop,  an'  has  my  da  to 
help  her!" 

He  spoke  of  his  father  without  bitterness,  though 
his  voice  hesitated  as  he  did  so,  and  its  note  became 
deeper. 

"Aye,"  she  rephed.  "I  will.  I  would  like  rightly 
to  see  Lough  Neagh!  I  mind  well  when  I  was  a 
wee  girl  goin'  to  school,  I  was  toul'  if  you  would  put 
a  piece  of  wood  in  the  Lough,  an'  left  it  there  a 
while,  a  year,  mebbe,  it  would  be  turned  into 
stone !" 

"Were  you  toul'  that,  too,  ma?  Sure,  I  was 
learned  that.  I  went  one  time  with  a  lot  of  fellows 
when  I  first  come  up  to  Belfast,  an'  I  put  a  piece 
of  wood  in,  an'  tied  it  to  the  shore  with  cord,  but 
when  I  went  back  I  couldn't  mind  where  I  had  left 
it.  ...  I  beheve  it's  true  all  the  same.  The  water 
petrifies  it.     You'll  see  bits  in  the  Museum.    .    .    ." 

They  walked  slowly  back  to  McArt's  Fort,  and 
sat  there  gazing  down  on  the  city  beneath  them. 

"It's  a  gran'  city,  Belfast,  eTamesey!" 

"Aye,  it  is,  ma!" 

She  waved  her  hand  toward  the  shipyards.  "All 
them     people     there     hammcrin'     away     thegether 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  303 

an'  makin'  big  boats  to  sail  the  world.  That's 
gran  ! 

"You're  right,  ma!" 

"An'  the  friendlier  they  are,  Jamesey,  the  better 
the  boats  they  build,  isn't  it,  son.^" 

"I  daresay  that's  true  enough.  It's  a  terrible  pity 
the  way  some  of  them  fights  over  religion !" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his.  "It's  a  pity  to  be 
fightin'  over  anything,  Jamesey.  There's  such 
strange  things  in  the  world,  son,  you  can  never 
understand  them,  an'  you'd  better  just  leave  them 
alone.  Many's  a  time  a  thing'll  be  done  or  said, 
mebbe,  an'  you'll  wonder  what  caused  it,  an'  per- 
haps you'll  be  Inclined  to  lose  your  temper  oA'er  the 
head  of  it,  but,  son-a-dear,  that'll  not  make  It  any 
better.    ..." 

"Ah,  but  sure  it's  natural,  ma!    ..." 

"I  know,  son,  I  know  well,  but  that  doesn't  help, 
does  it?  I'm  an  ould  woman,  Jamesey,  an'  you're 
a  headstrong  young  lad,  an'  things  mebbe  seems 
plain  to  you  that  seems  quare  complicated  to  me. 
I  daresay  I  was  like  you  when  I  was  young,  an' 
thought  the  same  as  you  think,  but  I've  tholed 
too  much,  Jamesey,  not  to  know  that  things  can't 
be  unraveled  just  like  a  ball  of  yarn  that's  run 
under  the  table  an'  got  twisted.  I  know  rightly 
what's  in  your  mind,  son,  about  your  da  an'  your 
Aunt  Esther,  an'  I  understand  it,  too,  but,  son- 
a-dear,  what's  your  sufferin'  to  your  Aunt  Esther's.'' 
.  .  .  I  don't  speak  about  your  da,  I  just  speak 
of  her.  She  done  me  harm,  bitter  harm,  son,  an' 
many's  a  time  I  felt  I  could  'a'  choked  her  for  it, 
but  whatever  I  suffered  through  her,  she's  suffered 
ten   times   over   through   herself.      I    could   near   be 


S04  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

sorrj  for  her  that  James  didn't  take  her  with  him 
when  I  think  of  the  sore  disappointment  he's  been 
to  her.    ..." 

"Ma,  how  can  you  speak  that  way,  an'  her  doin' 
what  she  done?  Your  own  sister  an'  your  own 
man!" 

"It  sounds  fearful,  doesn't  it,  son.''  An'  it  is 
fearful!  I  don't  know  why  it  is  I  don't  feel  more 
upset  about  it  .  .  .  but  somehow,  Jamesey,  I 
don't." 

"You  don't  care  for  my  da,  that's  why !" 

"How  would  I  care  for  him.'*"  she  said  with  some 
bitterness  in  her  voice.  "I  don't  feel  nothin'  about 
him,  not  even  contempt,  Jamesey.  He's  a  man 
in  m^"^  house  that  does  things  about  the  shop, 
that's  all.  Now  an'  a  while,  I  mind  that  he's 
your  da.    ..." 

"I  don't  own  him!" 

"But  he  is  your  da,  Jamesey,  an'  he's  Aggie's 
da.  I  think  to  myself  many's  a  time,  it's  a  pity 
of  him,  too,  to  be  doin'  what  he  liked  all  his  life, 
an'  then  at  the  end  of  it  all,  to  be  afeard  of  a  bit 
of  a  girl.     You  might  pity  him,  too,  Jamesey!" 

"I  want  nothin'  to  do  with  him.  I  would  throw 
him  out  of  the  house  if  I  was  you !" 

"Aj^e,  son,  but  you're  not,  you  see !  Look  now,  at 
that  boat  comin'  down  the  Lough !" 

They  watched  a  cross-channel  steamer  moving 
slowly  away  from  the  city,  gathering  speed  as  she 
moved,  and  churning  the  sea  into  a  trail  of  white 
foam.  They  could  hear  the  dull  thud  of  her  pro- 
pellers even  on  that  high  hill.   . 

"I  love  to  w.itch  a  boat,"  she  said.  "It's  a  proud 
thing!" 


MRS.  :\[ARTIN'S  MAN  305 

"It  is,"  he  answered.  "That  boat'll  be  goln'  to 
Glasgow,  I  expect !" 

"Look  at  the  wee  boats  about  the  Lough,  Jamesey. 
Over  thonder,  do  you  see?  Wee  boats  with  white 
sails.  Do  you  mind  the  time  I  took  you  on  the 
long  car  to  Bangor  to  see  the  Regatta,  an'  you 
near  cried  your  eyes  out  because  you  couldn't  go 
on  one  of  the  3'achts.'^" 

He  laughed  at  her  recollection.  "Aye,  ma,  I  do!" 
he  answered. 

"Ha,  you  were  a  willful  child,  Jamesey !  Wantin' 
this  an'  wantin'  that.     Just  like  your  da!" 

His  smile  left  his  face,  and  the  sullen  look  came 
back. 

"I  needn't  mean  to  offend  you,  Jamesey,  son,  but 
it's  true,  dear.  Mebbe,  it'll  console  you  to  know 
that  you've  somethin'  of  me  in  you,  too !" 

"I'm  like  you  in  everything,"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm 
not  like  him.     I'm  like  you,  so  I  am !" 

"No,  son,  I'm  friends  with  j^our  Aunt  Esther,  an' 
you're  not,  nor  is  your  da.  He  walked  out  of  the 
house  the  day  he  went  home,  an'  he  never  as  much 
as  said,  'Good-by !'  to  her.  You  don't  talk  to  her 
either!     That's  like  your  da,  son!" 

"Aye,  you're  makin'  me  out  in  the  wrong!" 

"No,  Jamesey,  dear,  I'm  not.  .  .  .  Thonder's 
the  Hollywood  Hills.  They  look  quaren  close  to, 
the  day.  That  means  there'll  be  rain,  doesn't 
it?  I  was  always  toul'  that  when  I  was  a 
child!    ..." 

He  did  not  answer,  nor  did  she  say  any  more 
to  him  for  a  long  while.  They  sat  together  on  the 
grass  looking  down  on  that  great  town  that  might 
be  the  loveliest  city  in  the  world,  biit  is  too  full  of 


306  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

ancient  tumult  and  dull  bigotries  and  old  rages  to 
shape  itself  after  the  pattern  that  the  winds  and  the 
sea  and  the  roaming  river  and  the  high  hills  have 
made  for  it.  Mrs.  Martin  let  the  hght  wind  lap  her 
as  it  would.  The  warm  glow  of  the  sun  fell  around 
her,  and  the  genial  airs  brightened  her  eyes  and 
brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks. 

"It's  sweet  air,"  she  said,  without  looking  round. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  sat  moodily  gazing  in 
front  of  him.  His  eyes  were  bent  on  the  mantle  of 
smoke  lying  over  Belfast,  but  he  did  not  see  it. 
His  mind  was  not  lying  on  the  activities  that  lay 
swarming  at  the  feet  of  that  hill.  He  looked  into 
the  smoke  that  poured  from  furnaces  and  mill-chim- 
neys, and  saw  the  dismal  eyes  of  his  Aunt  Esther 
on  that  day  at  Millisle  when  he  and  she  had  tum- 
bled over  the  seaweed  on  the  rocks,  and  he  had  fled 
from  her  through  the  dusk  to  Ballyreagh.  He  could 
see  her  quite  plainly  there  in  that  moving  ball  of 
black  cloud.  She  was  running  after  him,  calling 
to  him  as  she  ran,  but  he  would  not  make  any  answer 
nor  would  he  stop;  and  then  she  caught  up  to  him, 
and  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  drew  his  face 
down  to  hers.  He  could  almost  hear  her  telling 
him  that  she  loved  him  .  .  .  and  he  had  pitied 
her,  and  kissed  her  hair  .  .  .  and  then  he  had 
gone  from  her,  and  hate  had  grown  up  in  his 
heart.    .    .    . 

His  mother  was  speaking  to  him. 

"Jamesey,  son,"  she  said,  "we'll  have  to  be 
goin' !" 

"Aye,  ma  !'*  he  said,  standing  up  and  helping  her 
to  rise. 

"It'll  be  quare  work  gettin'  down,"  she  said. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  SOT 

"I  think  there's  an  easier  way  over  there,"  he  said, 
pointing  inland.  "I  noticed  it  as  we  were  lookin'  at 
Lough  Neagh  a  while  ago !" 

They  walked  toward  the  new  way  down  the  hill- 
side, and  as  they  did  so,  she  asked  him  to  promise 
that  he  would  never  tell  his  sister  anything  of  the 
story  of  his  aunt  and  his  father. 

"He's  set  his  heart  on  her,"  she  said,  "an'  he's 
promised  not  to  interfere  with  your  Aunt  Esther  if 
you'll  agree  not  to  tell  Aggie!" 

He  was  more  amenable  than  she  had  expected. 
He  promised  readily. 

"That's  right,  Jamesey!"  she  said,  pressing  his 
arm  in  hers. 

They  came  down  the  hill,  and  found  themselves  at 
the  end  of  the  Limestone  Road. 

"We'll  just  have  time  for  a  bite  to  ate,"  she  said, 
"an'  then  I'll  have  to  get  my  train!"  She  looked 
at  his  face  quickly,  and  then  added,  "I  wonder  if 
your  Aunt  Esther's  in  her  lodgin's.  Mebbe,  she'd 
come  an'  have  a  bite  with  us!"  He  did  not  reply. 
"Will  we  call  an'  see  on  our  way  home?"  she 
asked. 

"Aye,  if  you  like  I"  he  answered. 

"I  would  like  her  to  come  an'  sec  me  off,"  she 
added.  "It'll  mebbe  be  a  wee  while  afore  I  see  her 
again !" 

They  walked  up  to  the  door  of  the  house  in  which 
Esther  was  staying. 

"Do  you  mind,  Jamesey?"  she  asked,  as  they 
did  so. 

"No,  ma !"  he  replied. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

Esther  and  Jamesey  went  to  the  station  with  her 
to  see  her  off.  She  talked  to  them  very  gaily  as 
they  rode  on  the  tramcar  to  Station  Street  and 
while  they  waited  for  the  train  to  start. 

"Will  I  buy  you  anything  to  read,  ma?"  Jamesey 
said  to  her  a?  they  passed  the  bookstall. 

"Och,  no  son!  Sure,  what's  the  good  of  ould 
papers  .'*" 

Esther  had  seen  Mr.  Ferguson  about  the  shop,  and 
had  been  told  that  she  could  take  possession  imme- 
diately. 

"It'll  be  a  lot  of  work  for  you,  Esther,"  Mrs. 
Martin  said,  when  she  heard   the  news. 

"Aye,  it  will,  Martha!" 

"Aye,  it'll  be  a  lot  of  work.  Mebbe,  Jamesey 
would  be  willin'  to  lend  you  a  hand.    ..." 

Esther  did  not  answer.  She  looked  away  from 
her  sister  and  her  nephew,  and  waited  for  him  to 
reply.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  years  before  he 
made  an  answer. 

"I'll  help  you,  Aunt  Esther !"  he  said  quietly. 

She  turned  to  him.    .    .     . 

*'What  are  you  cryin'  for?"  Mrs.  Martin  de- 
manded of  her.  "Here,  come  in  here  for  a  minute, 
an'  don't  let  anyone  see  you  standin'  there  girnin'. 
Dear,  dear,  dear,  here's  a  nice  thing!  A  big  woman 
like  you !    .     .     .    All  right,  Jamesey,  son  !     Just  run 

308 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  309 

up  and  down  the  platform  for  a  wee  while.  I'll  call 
you  in  a  minute !" 

Jamesev  backed  out  of  the  carriage,  and  stood 
forlornly  about. 

"There,  now,  Esther  dear,  don't  be  cryin'  any 
more.  You've  got  your  desire,  haven't  you,  an'  wliat 
more  do  you  want.'*  Lift  up  your  face,  will  you, 
till  I  dry  your  eyes."  She  dabbed  her  handker- 
chief in  Esther's  face.  "'There,  now,  quit  it !  You'll 
have  me  cryin'  myself  in  a  wee  while,  an'  a  nice 
spectacle  that  would  be.  Are  you  all  right 
again.''    ..." 

Esther  dried  her  eyes,  and  then  leaned  back  in  her 
seat. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  cry,  Martha !    .    .    . " 

"No,  dear,  none  of  us  never  does  mean  to !  They 
say  it  does  you  good  to  be  cryin'  now  an'  again, 
an'  mebbe  it  does,  so  we'll  say  no  more  about  that, 
but  just  brighten  up  your  eyes  now,  an'  put  a  smile 
on  your  lips  for  I'm  goin'  to  call  Jamcscy  back!" 
She  went  to  the  door  of  the  carriage  as  she  spoke, 
and  called  to  her  son,  who  came  up  when  he  saw  her 
beckoning  to  him. 

"Your  aunt's  tired  after  her  work  at  the  shop, 
Jamesey,  an'  I  want  you  to  make  her  go  home  an' 
take  a  rest  for  a  wee  while.  Mebbe,  j'ou  an'  her'll 
go  somewhere  to  the  night,  to  a  theater  or  some- 
thin'    ..." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  a  theater,"  Esther  ex- 
claimed. 

"Well,  indeed,  then,"  Mrs.  INIartin  said,  "from  the 
look  of  the  picters  on  the  hoardin's,  I  don't  wonder 
at  you.  Nothin'  but  girls  kickin'  up  their  legs,  an' 
men  stabbin'  one  another,  that's   all  I  seen  on  the 


310  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

bills  any  time  ever  I  was  here.  There's  mebbe  a 
concert  or  somethin'  you  can  go  to.  Whatever  there 
is,  Jamesey,  just  you  take  her  with  you,  an'  I'll 
stan'  treat  to  you  !" 

A  porter  came  to  examine  tickets,  and  when  he 
found  that  Jamesey  and  Esther  were  not  travehnp- 
by  the  train,  he  demanded  that  they  should  step  on 
to  the  platform, 

"Ah,  sure,  there's  no  hurry,  mister,"  Mrs.  Martin 
said.  "You  haven't  got  near  ready  yet,  if  I  know 
anything  of  this  Hne.  Content  yourself,  man,  an' 
when  you  are  startin'  come  an'  tell  us,  an'  we'll  see 
what  we  can  do  for  you !" 

Jamesey  and  Esther  got  out  of  the  carriage,  and 
closed  the  door.  Mrs.  Martin  leaned  over  the  win- 
dow, and  talked  to  them  as  if  there  never  had  been 
any  trouble  between  them. 

"You're  a  bit  different  lookin',  Jamesey,"  she 
said,  "from  what  you  were  when  I  come  up  to 
you!" 

"Aye,  I  feel  different,"  he  replied. 

The  guard  called  out  to  the  driver,  and  then 
blew  his  whistle. 

"We're  goin'!"  Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed,  and  she 
caught  hold  of  Esther  and  then  of  Jamesey  and 
kissed  them.  "Mind  you  take  care  of  yourselves," 
she  added,  "an'  don't  go  an'  get  into  no  bothers. 
Jamesey'll  live  with  you,  Esther,  in  the  shop !  I'll 
come  up  again  in  a  wee  while  to  see  how  you're 
gettin'  on.  I'll  write  you  a  line  soon.  .  .  .  God 
love  you,  daughter!    ..." 

She  stood  at  the  window,  waving  to  them  until 
the  train  rolled  out  of  sight,  and  then  she  sat  down. 


MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN  311 

"Well,  now !"  she  exclaimed,  and  then  she  did  not 
speak  again. 

It  was  not  quite  dusk  when  she  arrived  at  Bally- 
reagh.  The  sun  was  riding  down  the  heavens  to 
the  horizon,  throwing  up  red  shafts  of  light  as  he 
went  down,  and  she  stood  for  a  few  moments  at 
the  sea-wall  to  watch  the  traffic  of  the  sea.  Then 
she  went  along  the  road,  past  lier  shop,  and  turned 
up  the  lane  that  led  to  the  Moat.  She  did  not  desire 
to  go  home  immediately.  She  wished  to  go  some- 
where and  sit  quietly  b}^  herself  for  a  while.  There 
was  no  one  at  the  ]\Ioat  when  she  climbed  the  little 
hill  on  which  it  stands,  and  she  said  to  herself 
that  she  was  glad  of  the  loneliness.  She  sat  down 
on  the  wooden  seat,  where  hundreds  of  men  and 
women  had  carved  their  names  and  initials,  and 
watched  the  sun  go  down.  It  was  such  a  little 
while  ago  since  she  had  last  climbed  this  hill 
and  sat  here  wondering  on  her  fate  ;  but  it  seemed 
as  if  years  had  elapsed  since  then.  Then  she 
had  been  full  of  desire  and  expectation.  "Just 
like  a  wonderin'  young  girl !"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "Now  I'm  an  ould  woman  wearin'  a  bonnet 
an'  a  cape,  an'  I  have  no  thought  about  James 
at  all !" 

The  sun  set,  and  the  dusk  slowly  spread  over 
the  heavens,  and  the  little  boats  that  rocked  to 
and  fro  on  the  tide  lost  their  shape  and  soon  were 
hid.  The  lamps  in  the  lighthouse  were  lit,  and  here 
and  there  she  could  see  a  light  shining  from  the 
cottages.  Out  in  the  darkness  little  lights  went 
slipping  by  showing  where  the  great  boats  went 
through  the  sea. 

"It's  quaren  quare !"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 


f512  MRS.  MARTIN'S  MAN 

got  up  from  her  seat,  and  prepared  to  go  home. 
The  lovehness  of  the  sunset  and  the  dark  clustering 
beauty  of  the  night,  besprinkled  with  stars  and 
radiant  moonshine,  filled  her  mind  with  peace  and 
yet  made  her  feel  sad.  She,  too,  had  had  longings, 
and  she,  too,  had  lost  all  that  she  had  desired,  but 
what  was  the  good  of  mourning?  Things  happen, 
and  they  cannot  be  changed. 

She  reached  the  bottom  of  the  Moat  hiU,  and  then 
walked  along  the  lane  leading  to  her  home. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  house  when  she  reached 
it. 

"Aggie  an'  James'll  still  be  at  the  shop,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "I'd  better  be  gettin'  their  tay  ready 
for  them!" 

She  lit  the  lamp,  and  then  took  the  bellows  and 
blew  the  fire  into  a  blaze. 

"Aye,"  she  said  to  herself,  "they'll  want  their 
tay  when  they  come  in!" 

She  spread  the  table-cloth  on  the  table,  and  then 
went  to  the  dresser  to  get  the  cups. 

"Och,  ochone!"  she  said  a  little  wearily,  as  she 
laid  them  on  the  table. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


I 


'HE  following  pages  contain  advertise- 
ments of  a  few  of  the  Macmillan  novels 


MR.  H.   G.  WELLS'   NEW   NOVEL 

Mr.  Britling  Sees  It  Through 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $/.jo 

"  A  powerful,  strong  story.  .  .  .  Has  wonderful  pages 
.  .  .  gems  of  emotional  literature.  .  .  .  Nothing  could 
express  the  whole,  momentous  situation  in  England  and 
in  the  United  States  in  so  few  words  and  such  convinc- 
ing tone.  .  .  .  For  clear  thinking  and  strong  feeling 
the  finest  picture  of  the  crises  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  world 
that  has  yet  been  produced."  —  Philadelphia  Ledger. 

"  The  most  thoughtfully  and  carefully  worked  out 
book  Mr.  Wells'  has  given  us  for  many  a  year.  ...  A 
veritable  cross-section  of  contemporary  English  life 
.  .  .  admirable,  full  of  color  and  utterly  convincing." 

—  JVe7v  York  Times. 

"  A  war  epic.  .  .  .  To  read  it  is  to  grasp  as  perhaps 
never  before  the  state  of  affairs  among  those  to  whom 
war  is  the  actual  order  of  the  day.  Impressive,  true, 
tender  .  .   .  infinitely  moving  and  potent." 

—  Chicago  Herald. 

"  The  most  significant  and  impressive  book  which  has 
come  from  Mr.  Wells'  pen.  ...  A  strong  book  that 
every  reader  must  prize."  —  JVew  York  World. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publiahen  64  68  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


Tlie  Belfry 


Cloth,  i2mo,  $l.3S 

"  A  perfect,  composite  picture  of  real  human  beings 
amid  the  stress  of  present-day  events  and  emotions.  .  .  . 
Rich  in  its  portrayal  of  the  effects  of  temperament  upon 
temperament  ...  a  story  of  events  as  they  are  measured 
by  and  sway  the  minds  of  men  and  women.  ...  A  fascin- 
atingly interesting  story.  Better  in  scheme  and  motive  and 
characterisation  even  than  '  The  Combined  Maze.'  Touches 
the  heights  of  Miss  Sinclair's  skill,  and  indicates  in  her  still 
higher  powers." —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  At  once  refreshing  and  unusual.  Will  appreciably 
strengthen  the  author's  reputation.  .  .  .  Few  living  writers 
are  endowed  with  such  gifts  of  humanization  and  character 
IKDrtrayal." —  Chicago  Herald. 

"  A  most  readable  new  novel.  .  .  .  An  exceptionally  able 
and  interesting  study.  Miss  Sinclair  handles  a  host  of  char- 
acters with  unerring  grasp  .  .  .  vivid,  unceasingly  readable, 
another  notable  achievement  of  its  distinguished  author." 
—  Nezv  York  Tribune. 

"  Most  interesting  and  readable  .  .  .  recalls  Miss  Sin- 
clair's memorable  first  success.  ...  In  '  The  Belfry '  the 
story  is  the  thing,  from  the  first  page  to  the  last.  It  fulfills 
our  idea  of  a  really  successful  novel  —  a  story  so  interest- 
ing in  itself  that  ever}'body  likes  it,  and  so  well  done  that 
nobody  can  find  fault." —  New  York  Globe. 

''  An  astute  study  of  feminine  psychology  and  the  artist 
type." —  Boston  Herald. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

rublishers      64-66  Fifth  Avenue      New  York 


The  Ruddn 

By   MARY   S.    WATTS 

Cloth,  T2mo,  $T.j;o 

"  A  new  novel  by  Mrs.  Watts  is  always  the  event  of  the 
month  in  which  it  appears.  She  has  won  a  secure  place  in 
the  minds  of  serious  students  of  the  progress  of  American 
fiction  because  she  always  has  something  to  say  that  is 
worth  knowing  and  weighing."  —  Mew  York  Tribune. 

"  It  is  as  bright  a  book  as  can  be  imagined  ;  the  people 
are  not  merely  lifelike,  they  are  like  photographs  of  those 
we  know.  It  is  a  page  of  real  American  life  that  Mrs. 
Watts  has  torn  off  for  us,  a  page  that  is  thoroughly  enter- 
taming  and  admirably  written."  —  jVew  Yoi'k  Sun. 

"  A  worthy  successor  to  her  earlier  books,  '  Nathan 
Burke'  and  'Van  Cleve,'  is  her  new  novel,  'The  Rudder.' 
The  book  is  a  solid  piece  of  good  workmanship."  — P/iil- 
mdclphia  Evening  Telegram. 

"  It  disports  an  excellent  company,  touches  tense  and 
impelling  issues.  Vividly  conceived  and  well  executed. 
Convincing,  appealing,  artistically  fluid,  dispassionate  yet 
tender,  it  abounds  in  dry  humour  and  dramatic  situations 
most  quietly  handled,  it  is,  to  bestow  highest  commenda- 
tion, amazingly  lifelike.  Here  is  a  book  that  must  be  read 
to  be  properly  appreciated." —  Chicago  Herald. 


THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publi«h»rii  64  66  Fifth  Avpt>ij«»  Vf>-or  York 


The  Brook  Kerith 

By  GEORGE  MOORE 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.50. 

A  life  of  Christ,  in  fiction  form,  is  Mr.  George  Moore's  latest 
contribution  to  literature  in  this  remarkable  book.  Commencing 
with  the  supposition  that  Christ  did  not  perish  on  the  cross,  the 
author  builds  for  us  a  narrative  of  unusual  power,  the  daring 
originality  of  which  will  astound  the  modern  reader.  Mr.  Moore 
has  devoted  a  great  deal  of  his  time  to  the  study  of  the  legends 
on  which  the  book  is  based  in  which  he  has  long  been  interested 
and  the  result  is  a  splendid  picture  of  the  Holy  Land  in  the  days 
of  Christ. 


The  Green  Alleys 

By  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

Here  Mr.  Phillpotts  adds  another  brilliant  story  to  his  series  ol 
novels  which  has  dealt  with  great  industries  —  Brunels  Tower,  the 
pottery  industry,  Old  Delabole,  the  slate  mining  industry.  The 
Green  Alleys  is  a  tale  of  the  Kentish  hop  fields.  Against  this 
background  there  is  told  a  dramatic  and  interesting  story,  one 
which  is  a  worthy  addition  to  his  long  line  of  successful  and  per- 
manently valuable  books.  There  are  those  among  the  Phillpotts 
admirers  who  maintain,  and  with  good  reason,  that  in  these  later 
writings,  particularly  these  intimate  studies  of  those  whose  toil 
contributes  to  the  important  business  enterprises  of  the  day,  Mr. 
Phillpotts  is  doing  the  best  work  of  his  career.  The  originality, 
the  humor,  the  insight  into  human  nature  and  the  sure  grasp  of 
the  big  actuating  principles  of  life  shown  in  this  volume  are  but  a 
fresh  demonstration  of  the  ever-increasing  skill  of  one  who  stands 
high  in  the  estimation  of  English  readers  everywhere. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     64-66  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


^OL  7      \BU 


l~j  ^  f<,  ijiC^ 


kn 


2      l93ijrfA'M 


Form  L-9-15)?j-7,'31 


PR 
6009     Ervine . 


E73m     Mrs . 

Mart  in  •-S- 

man^ 


'  '  '^^    000  371QQ2 


4009 


Ill 
0 


UNIVERSr'V  .  ''  C'M.TPHJUNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


<S3JJ•j<:<«■«I•'2■«I■s*•i^•<i•i2•:■':■'^• 


m 

m 


&K 


w5 

i^ii 

t 

